Little Ice Age

I have one good memory—a total Eclipse of the sun—when out of brilliance Dusk came swiftly and on the whole At seven years it felt good on a summer afternoon To be outrun by a horse from another century— The next morning I washed up On land like a pod of seals Struck with a longing for dark at noon— If the cessation of feeling is temporary It resembles sleep—if permanent, it resembles A little ice age—and the end of some Crewelwork by a mother who put honey Into my hands so the bees would love me.