Ted Hughes

The tree creeps on its knees.
The dead branch aims, in the last light.
The cat-bird is telescopic.

The sun’s escape
Shudders shot
By wings of ashes.

The moon falls, with all its moths,
Into a bird’s face.

Stars spark
From the rasp of its cry.

Till the moon-eater, cooling,
Yawns dawn
And sleeps bark.