​The garden gnomes have run inside.
Darkness breaks upon the birds.
Songs are cut
Like the morning worm:
This stillness routs all life.
 
Has our everlasting sun slipped its rhythm
To cuckold earth?
 
Fear supports my awe
And links man to bird in strict mortal pulse
 
The background cloth
Life’s deafening kettle drum
Has split.
It is the quiet before the great trumpet
And its mouthing angels?
 

Gar Jones - 1980

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