Come – no grazed knee, no tears, no –

no fear of darkness in the singing wood.

Hear the threnody written on the wind:

a lament not for lostness, no, but for the slow

path homewards, the pebbles which guide us:

a lament for the speed our legs could

never muster. Come, stop these tears. We’ll find

the right track, and then at last we’ll unlock

the secrets of the moon. What’s the fuss?

No crying, sister. This blackness will be undone.

Here is my hand, here, your pillow, the rock

and here beneath us is the ground. The sun

is not our saviour. Listen – listen to the noise.

The whispering leaves, whispering their joys.