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A small mountain pond and fells surrounding Bárrás, Finnmark Fylke, Norway: photo by Villie Miettinnen, 4 September 2006
Lord: it's not time yet. The shrunk summer has slipped
Beneath the sundial floor
And the shadows say: three thirty; quarter to four; four
Fifteen; four thirty. And so on.
The water is a reflecting mirror below the violet slopes at the foot
Of the ashen peaks
And the villagers have retired within the safe enclosure of
Their cottages. If you have no home
Nor place to stay, do not knock on any door. No one
Will answer. Now the sun is going down
And the feeling of winter approaching
Lies upon the hills like hoar frost. Reading, writing
Long letters to yourself, wandering absently in circles, none
Of these things helps. And dry leaves are not yet blowing in that oddly
Menacing way that happens when night falls.
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