My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer

　　by Mark Strand

　　 1

　　 When the moon appears

　　 and a few wind-stricken barns stand out

　　 in the low-domed hills

　　 and shine with a light

　　 that is veiled and dust-filled

　　 and that floats upon the fields，

　　 my mother， with her hair in a bun，

　　 her face in shadow， and the smoke

　　 from her cigarette coiling close

　　 to the faint yellow sheen of her dress，

　　 stands near the house

　　 and watches the seepage of late light

　　 down through the sedges，

　　 the last gray islands of cloud

　　 taken from view， and the wind

　　 ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat

　　 on the black bay.

　　 2

　　 Soon the house， with its shades drawn closed， will send

　　 small carpets of lampglow

　　 into the haze and the bay

　　 will begin its loud heaving

　　 and the pines， frayed finials

　　 climbing the hill， will seem to graze

　　 the dim cinders of heaven.

　　 And my mother will stare into the starlanes，

　　 the endless tunnels of nothing，

　　 and as she gazes，

　　 under the hour's spell，

　　 she will think how we yield each night

　　 to the soundless storms of decay

　　 that tear at the folding flesh，

　　 and she will not know

　　 why she is here

　　 or what she is prisoner of

　　 if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.

　　 3

　　 My mother will go indoors

　　 and the fields， the bare stones

　　 will drift in peace， small creatures --

　　 the mouse and the swift -- will sleep

　　 at opposite ends of the house.

　　 Only the cricket will be up，

　　 repeating its one shrill note

　　 to the rotten boards of the porch，

　　 to the rusted screens， to the air， to the rimless dark，

　　 to the sea that keeps to itself.

　　 Why should my mother awake？

　　 The earth is not yet a garden

　　 about to be turned. The stars

　　 are not yet bells that ring

　　 at night for the lost.

　　 It is much too late.

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