Each minute of a further light
Draws me towards perspective Spring.
I fold the minutes back each night,
I hear the gossiping
Of birds whose instinct carries time,
A watch tucked in the flourished breast.
It ticks the second they must climb
Into a narrow nest.
So birds. But I am not thus powered.
Impulse has gone. My measured cells
Of brain and knowledge are too stored
And trust to birds and bells.
Yet longer light is fetching me
To hopes I have no reason for.
A further lease of light each day
Suggests irrational more.
~ Elizabeth Jennings
