Dry Stone Walls Poem by Sailing to windward

I stood, waiting,
looking through the glass darkly,
searching down that lane,
edged with dry stone walls:
walls that made me shiver,
as time ushered time, slowly.

On quiet nights,
the sheep ambled on top of those walls,
the muffled clatter of loose stones
breaking my sleep,
sounding like thieves or murderers
preparing to enter my little cottage
on that Welsh mountain, below me.

On stormy nights, the old bell
at the cottage door would sound,
and I stood, cold, uncomforted,
with bread knife and scythe under my bed,
as that old bell rang itself, ghostly.

I stood, waiting, and looking through the glass
Until, when the light of day had gone,
(I don't recall the moment precisely)
and the window glass had become looking glass,
I no longer saw love being invoked easily.
I saw only my reflection, looking back, patiently.