Monday, 1 February 2010

Sunset - a poem by Mary Webb


Dull is the sun as an old lanthorn guttering,
And wild the valleys where the coughing sheep,
With wool torn by the brambles, climb and leap.
Here on the hill-top the old wind is uttering
His ancient, weary, unassuaged complaints,
Baying among the rocks that rise like tombs;
Shouting aloud the wild and secret dooms
Of all things living, while the evening faints
Amid the torn white flocks of cloud that fly
In panic all across the western sky.

Mary Webb


ChrisJ said...

That's really a great poem. I love all the images it conjures up. Great one!

Morning's Minion said...

The poem paints a picture of a less than comfortable evening coming on---I think I would be hastening home, storing up images, but not wanting to linger. I sense unease amongst the sheep and feel the bite of the wind. A time to shut the door on the night and make tea.

Bovey Belle said...

Her use of language is wonderful. The coughing sheep and the torn clouds gave such a vivid image.

Dartford Warbler said...

We have coughing New Forest ponies here rather than sheep, but in other respects this poem well reflects sunsets here, when the coming night promises unforgiving cold.