Time now for the trees to shroud the earth

                        with their dark branches, time

                        when the wind dies down,

                        and over the still mirror

                        a faded voice is whispering.

 

                        Time again to climb into the old

                        music-box in the forest,

                        and wind the iron spring –

 

                        it is letter by letter,

                        line by line. 

 

 

 

 

    © Henry Gould