At Dusk

The flicker of a pipistrelle
    Crosses the window's dimming square;
A song-thrush tinkers at a shell;
    Close by, the cows’ tongues rasp and tear.

Through grasses’ long seed-feathered tips
    A last gust sinuously rides
Trees flinching where its onset trips
    Leaves up, to show pale undersides.

Sashes abruptly stammer, hush.
    A pane is blurred with fine faint bloom.
The moths are louder as they brush
    With papery scrabblings round the room.

Jerome Betts

If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear from you.