Full Moon and Little Frieda by Ted Hughes

A cool small evening shrunk
to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket–
and you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming-mirror
to tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there,
looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath–
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back
like an artist gazing amazed at a work
that points at him amazed.