Child at a window

Child at a window

The night was black as sloes, the stars
as bright as running water-shine,
a song, a rhythm in the air,
of chords plucked by a tawny owl
and fluted over stalky fields,
to weave a garland for the hair
of one child at her window high,
with eyes as wide as endless skies.

A touch as soft as blossom-fall,
a call from fox to vixen, soft
and hoarse with love and caring, sailed
across the rushy, windy trees.
She held a hand out, cupped her palms,
and waited for the star to fall
from tawny wings that skimmed the night,
for sky gifts for a bright-eyed bairn.