Dèr Mouw poem

It's night. I'm on the moor. Nowhere a sound.

Over me, as transparent crystal wall

round an old mountain god within his hall,

a hemisphere of silence wraps me round.

I hear far off how whistling shrill and clear
tunnels straight through; my rocks creak everywhere.
A bark, there, hacks a hole; a straight and hair-
line crack splits open, till checked by my ear.

I hear live blood that makes my temples buzz -
No: it's the earth's own heart: it quakes, it thuds,
enough to rouse the god from torpor's hold.

To listen well, I shut my eyes quite tight,
but am prevented by the stars' bright light
that trickles through a sieve of tiny holes.