Mas­ter Plan

The London Magazine - - RICHARD RYAN -

I will not travel tonight. To­ward dawn a star In An­dromeda will abruptly

Die, but the world and his wife, Tonight shrouded in snow Where they live, will see

Noth­ing of this, in­stead will mar­vel With drinks through glass At a slow lace of snow slip­ping

Down the dark limbs of trees Or, when that bores them, may Num­ber to­gether as they drift

To­ward sleep the thin Skins of heat like leaves Slip­ping from lit­tle hands

And lit­tle feet, feel­ing Their warm houses with leaves And snow fill­ing, the chil­dren’s rooms

Softly into dark drifts Tilt­ing, will take at dawn What small com­fort they may need

From the high spars Of trees re­turn­ing safely

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