Daye 21 / The Moon And The Yew Tree

this is the light of the mind
cold and planetary
the trees of the mind are black
the light is blue
the grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were god
prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place
separated from my house by a row of headstones
I simply cannot see where there is to get to

the moon is no door
it is a face in its own right
white as a knuckle and terribly upset
it drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
with the o-gape of complete despair
I live here
twice on sunday
the bells startle the sky --
eight great tongues affirming the resurrection
at the end they soberly bong out their names

the yew tree points up
it has a gothic shape
the eyes lift after it and find the moon
the moon is my mother
she is not sweet like mary
her blue garments unloose small bats and owls
how I would like to believe in tenderness -
the face of the effigy
gentled by candles
bending
on me in particular
its mild eyes

I have fallen a long way
clouds are flowering
blue and mystical over the face of the stars
inside the church
the saints will all be blue
floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews
their hands and faces stiff with holiness
the moon sees nothing of this
she is bald and wild
and the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence
~ Sylvia Plath