Ted Hughes and Little Frieda

The portrait above is of Ted Hughes by Sylvia Plath: the poem below is about their daughter Frieda, by Ted. It reads as fresh today as when it was written.

Full Moon and Little Frieda

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

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