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When will the children return to the climbing-tree?
Only the full moon is perched there now,
an owl’s face turning to every scene,
wind flicks the swing-rope like the tail of a cow.
An oak, branching out into low cloud,
roots reaching far under the stream ;
but the children are not allowed,
darkness would smother any frightened scream.
Come longer days they will nest there,
the cooing, calling boys and girls,
weaving their plaits and locks of hair,
feeling their skin, like the buds, unfurl.
For now, they hibernate with eyes wide
in rooms where screens are netting light.