Trickery

The night, my son, is a white butterfly:
it alights on a poppy and there it hides,
nestled in the poppy flower soft and deep.
Put it out of your mind.
Sleep, my son, sleep.

The night, my son, is a horse getting ready
to leave on a journey long and steep.
Now all is calm. Now there is nothing.
You, too, settle down.
Sleep.