Boudoir. Poem by Seamus Hogan

Evening again lays down shadow
Like a cardplayer
With a hopeless hand.
At the bend in the avenue
A Fragrance of honeysuckle
Gathers up overhanging dusk.

Three trees by the bedroom window
Are unwinding the final strands
Of daylight from their branches;
With silent hands
You are winding another night
Through your hair.

What is it, is it that is in the air?
Something finished, or a thing just begun?
While the orchestra underneath what happens
Still plays on, will play on,
You go on twisting and untwisting
Nights through your hair,
Nights out of your hair.