At dusk they pour from the sky.
and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver.
The moon kept shedding its silver clothes
over the bogs and pockets of bracken.
Those nights I would gaze at the bay road,
at the cottages clustered under the moon’s immaculate stare,
nothing hinted that I would suffer so late
this turning away, this longing to be there.
— Mark Strand, from “Nights in Hackett’s Cove,” New and Selected Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)