Fled the stars in all directions,
Leaving Heaven swept and clean.
Then the sun came up in sections,
Like a frozen tangerine.
He was cold but he was singing
As he put the stars to flight;
Then he shortly started flinging
Lariats of golden light.
First he caught St, Mary’s steeple,
Then he caught a dozen pubs;
Then he caught the taller people,
And at last the smaller shrubs.
– R. P. Lister
THE NEW YORKER
JANUARY 30, 1960