Waving of Hands

Always across the fields, our sign
a waving of hands, either greeting or goodbye.
But who is moving closer, you or I?
Love, it is the field's diminishing green,
with neither greeting nor goodbye.

Hunter's Moon

Two pheasants we shot that night
one fell in a dark mire, wounded
another clattered down through wintry twigs.

A wild moon broke over the stubble,
our way back was over stubble and by
the larchwood where the moon hung
the birds in ghostly light.

At last I threw them down, and climbing
from a gate, for that moment
...