Throughout this autumn-ruined wood, collapsed and dead,
combs of sharp spiney leaves break out in violent red.
So little green now; everywhere this flame, this wound,
tongues from an undergrowth disordered and unpruned,
through which the chilly air stirs with a paper sound,
and tree trunks stand there helpless, stuck in the numb ground.
What’s this rebellious bleeding on the final day?
Is it you, world, or I, angry at our decay?