Spring on the hills of mourning
sends forth a suncloud sheet of light.
The whole pyramid of fantastic sky
shouts an undated song
and rain shrouds from the western seas,
cromlech priests in frowning dress,
descend the limbs of outstretched
solitary trees to make some
will-o’-the-wisp way to an old abiding.
Spring shatters the opaque sky in a dazzlement:
the parachutist falls
beyond the slaughter stone.