Late Summer's First Day
The sun has burnt through.
That which resembled a mask
was just itself:
There is nothing
between the light and its source.
The fields gather dust
instead of rising.
The woods stand cold and hard.
The houses have come out
for the last time.
Their expressions are unequivocal
and inexplicable as Tarot cards.
For a moment you see the future
as if it lay before you.
Epoch Volume 62, Number 3
Volume 62, Number 3
Copyright © 2014 by Henrik Nordbrandt
Translation copyright © 2014 by Thomas E. Kennedy
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission