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.
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,
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.