austere sun descends above the fens, an orange cyclops eye — scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin; feathered dark in thought, i stalk like a one
a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on. with last summer's reeds are all
in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what
solace can be struck from the rock — to make heart's waste grow green again?