Silently the leaves are mourning.
Lonely freezing moor and ground.
Above all other huntsmen hunting
High in the wind an unknown hound.

Everywhere in soggy sand
Lies the forest’s powdershot,
Acorns like spent shells.

Autumn spent its shots,
Quiet shots across the grave.

Hark, the rustling death-bed crowns,
Fogs drift by, and demons.