Lamplight

Glasshouses flash crystal, platinum-white, against green hills,
one warmly intruded upon by setting sun, as though it held
some radiant bloom which, opening into dusk, glowed with all
the day's spent energy.
Nearby, brown horses in a field, dense bodies
you would think impervious to light, haloed by an old gold
haze their eyes seem to offer, share, the mystery of … Hooves still,
or slow as shadows moving in lengthening grass.
I watched in late winter, watched the flickering through glass,
through brown transparent eye, of a thinning radiance, a deepening
sea-darkness. And my breath was a mist I looked through,
and the horses'
breath a further mist through which the sun, upyielding,
sank its bright ghost.
Later, the driving home, darkness a settled thing
but for the streetlights — cold, distinct; counterpart of night —
with them no yielding, softening, as in the breath of lamplight
with its hazy edge: a buzzing corridor between brightness, void.