The Woods
Listen! The trees of the deep,
dark wood, shivering and
jittering their leaves like papery
hulls of beaten silver; the sly
wind, snaking through their
tops, whispering that it will
soon begin. The moonless night
has slipped on a pair of fine,
leather gloves, shaken a black
sheet across the land: a ruse,
a disguise, a sleeping spell,
so that all beneath it slumbers
sweet. And look: the rough
woolliness of the huddled
woods; the quilted stretch
of fields, the sleek black
river that lies flat no longer.
A bubble has appeared,
there in the widest stretch;
a heaving bubble, a quiver
of tiny ripples. A mourning
rose closes its lids.
No comments:
Post a Comment