Aimlessly wandering in a landscape
that is quickly growing dark and changing
The grass of December is as brittle as glass
and readily splinters underfoot.
It is intolerably late to live in December:
darkness, dilapidated barns, rusting implements
fruit-trees being eaten by moss, this patient decay
that we naturally associate with the countryside
and that gives you a sudden pain in the midriff
the moment you realise that what you are seeing
is an image of the future, of the life of the unborn
just as much as of the past and of the dead.
Ever narrower the strip becomes that divides them.
Ever easier to see that we too are meaningless.
The large white winter hares streak across the fields.
Ever more quickly man’s image is erased.
It is time to go home.
But we are already home.