Toiling up the laddery flight of stairs,
Out of the narrow hallway, summer-dark
Through June blazes its hay-making air,
The little girl climbs laughing. And I mark,
Across intransigent, compulsive deep,
Your smile beckoning, a silver thread,
Your steadfast hand held out, there at the head
Of the steep stair-well.
No gift of sleep,
That timeless conjunct: I knew that both were dead,
The child so long ago, and you I keep
Old, become dependent child once more
(The thieved years by suffering restored),
But dead, too. Then in what ritual way
Were death and grief allied, while over all—
The laddery stair, the scent of mown hay—
An ultimate summer stirred in the dark hall?