Soon cold shadows will close over us/
and summer's transitory gold be gone;/
I hear them chopping firewood in our court-/
the dreary thud of logs on cobblestone./Winter will come to repossess my soul/
with rage and outrage, horror, drudgery/
and like the sun in its polar holocaust/
my heart will be a block of blood-red ice./I listen trembling to that grim tattoo-/
build a gallows, it would sound the same./
My mind becomes a tower giving way/
under the impact of a battering-ram./Stunned by the strokes, I seem to hear, somewhere,/
a coffin hurriedly hammered shut- for whom?/
Summer was yesterday; autumn is here!/
Strange how that sound rings out like a farewell./
C.B.
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