I am at home with grey days behind empty trees
with wide transfiguring winds and falling rain,
white houses each on its own by Northern shores
alongside roads where no-body is walking.
In the library the people inside the books
are sleepers turning over from dream to dream –
if I had to leave them to talk the day would unravel
my work unweave in threads and stream to the floor,
for I am remembering where tower and bridge
were outward objects with the intensity
of what is inward, where appearance and vision
were one, as if an angel was blind
and looking into himself. It comes home to me
that the world within the angel is my task.