Angel Of Night Poem by Richard Blanch

Darkness is mine, she says, ironically shining
In undoubted beauty, trailing her stars
And puzzling the mind which thought
It needed sleep. Definition stirs
Uneasily: he dozed the moment blinding
Daylight snoozed. He feels he ought
To rouse himself and save the granaries, the stores
Of reason from this night time thief. Finding
He cannot, he prods and pokes thought, warning,
Ringing anxious bells and ranging
The suddenly boundless night,
Searching and smelling out the strange
And alarming crazy intruder who has torn
The graceful fabrics of the brain. Look, he is trying
To mend the wounds. Her serenity mocks. Why grind
The wheat when the bread does not feed? No lines
Drawn in her air can last. Nothing can bind
What she has set free. O but in this. she is unkind-
Like a vine without grapes round my head her tentacles wind.