North of seven hundred moons,
they have tended their garden
like fussing birds their nest.
The garden shrinks, the hillside
grows wilder. Pines have become
crowned draughts. Death neatly
arranged. She gathers the last
pinefall in a hand shovel.
In mulberry gown and blue socks.
Eyes silver and stained. In a hand,
crisp as an autumn leaf, he brings
her a forest flower. Moonfall
lit by a taper of birdsong. Not
a patch of voice escapes his mouth.
Gordon Mason, Scotland and Spain