Smoke graces the hills in frail fog;
as they stand so still,
fingers locked.
We saw them but a week fled
as they lay and slept
on the shelf.
Cold stone makes not for comfort
and so they rise with
the moon.
The priest bade them sleep, but
they could not hear him,
nor the dogs bay.
We glimpse them as we put out
our candles and fires and
in the morning
we see them go back to that hill;
trudge back to sleep
and barrow.