So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. 

Moments ago walking up the hill from home to studio
Birdsong in pre-dawn darkness pulled me to pause
One sharp sound answered softly, each seeking each
Standing still on the stony path peering beyond tree tops
A meteor sweeping across the black, prophet of the sun
Still to come, first taste on this Feast of the Ascension.