The Junipers

Gray the slow sky darkens Over the downland track Where the long valley closes Under a smooth hill's back. The slope is darkly sprinkled With ancient junipers, Each a small, secret tree: There not a breath stirs. I fear those waiting shapes Of wry, blue--berried wood. They make a twilight in my mind, As if they drained my blood, As if a spirit were prisoned Within each writhen stem, And no one knows their kindred Nor what frustrated them. Along the empty valley Like a ghost go I; My footsteps and my beating heart Nothing signify, Lost into nameless ages That come, slow cloud on cloud, From history's beginning And all the future shroud.