The time is for prose

The time is for prose I tell the mountains –

And gloomy in the distance they shrug

Their haughty shoulders. Moles have dug

Them into sieves and the sand is slipping through.

The time is for prose I tell the falling night –

Falling like a heartbeat it turns away

And sinks into the light of day.

The sun is blown out like a candle.

The time is for prose I tell the changing tree –

I’m losing my leaves, says-he

Losing them like rain on an autumn day.

It’s that damned wind blowing me apart.

So I turn to the wind and say

It is time for prose –

Its whisper carries over the mountains,

Through the night into another sun.

Soon the tree beside your window

Will rustle: it is time for prose.