[The pleated strata of air]

The pleated strata of air,

The fir-branches crimped like wheel tracks,

And October standing by

Saffron and bald, like a Buddhist;

A fancy foreign car

From nowhere, no-man’s land,

Has stamped its designer soles

Over the slant stripes of grass.

How short the lease,

How quickly the russet speeds by,

If this crumbling tentative track

Will be whited out come All Saints.

Soon winter will hobble close,

Putting out its dreary dust-sheets.

So burn while you can, October,

Like puerperal fever, melting the brain.

Translated by Catriona Kelly