The garden’s getting quieter
As the guests begin to part.
They’re making their excuses,
They say it’s getting dark.
One by one they fall away
And with every departee,
It seems the climate correlates
With another lost degree.
Until all that occupies is blackness
And blackness occupies me.
And in the lonely blindness
The only sound is that
Of creaking garden furniture,
Singing in the black.