He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.

He will come like frost,
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark
One evening when bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free
He will come like child.