And the last integument
Of the past shall be rent
To show how
all
things bent
Their energies to that hour
When you first demanded your flower.
And in that image let
Both past and future forget,
In clasped communal ease,
Their brute identities.
The path lifts up ahead
To the
rocca,
supper, bed.
We move in the mountain's shade.
But the mountain is at our back.
Ahead, climbs the coast-cliff track.
The valley between
is
dim.
Ahead, on the cliff-rim,
The
rocca
clasps its height.
It accepts the incipient night.
Just once we look back.
On sunset, a white gull
is
black.
It hangs over the mountain crest.
It hangs on the saffron west.
It makes its outcry.
It slides down the sky.
East now, it catches the light.
Its black has gone again white.
Over the
rocca's
height
It gleams in the last light.
It has sunk from our sight.
Beyond the cliff
is
night.
It sank on unruffled wing.
We hear the sea rustling.
You will hear it all night, darling.
