Night Vision
At noon the garden’s open as a flower,
its beauty fitting to our spectrum and our scale.
Green lawn, brown earth
and flashing red, black, white,
three partridges that sprint across the grass.
Plain everyday.
The midnight garden’s a dark pool.
Upon it strands of brightness float.
Tonight the moon has picked some flowers
from the blossoming plum tree.
All else is shadow, liquid,
darkly bright,
more full of wonder than a solstice dawn.
A whispering of wings, a snuffling on the lawn.
Hedgehog and owl are hunting
prey invisible to us.
For them this night is commonplace
and day’s too dazzling strange to linger in.