The Quiet Hour

Between the last of the work and the first of the dark an hour comes that asks nothing,

that stands at the field gate with its hands in its pockets and says nothing worth repeating.

The kettle. The chair by the window. The dog turning three times before she settles.

Somewhere a gate swings. Somewhere a car goes by on a road that is not this one.

I have spent my life trying to be somewhere, and here is somewhere, arriving

without being sent for, the way the light does, the way the evening does.