Ruts

Ruts

To
the right the summer dawn

wakes the leaves and the mists

and the noises in this corner of the park,

and the left-hand banks

hold in their violet shadows

the thousand swift ruts of the wet road.

Wonderland procession! Yes, truly: floats covered

with animals of gilded wood, poles and bright bunting,

to the furious gallop of twenty dappled circus horses,

and children and men on their most fantastic beasts;–

twenty rotund vehicles, decorated with flags

and flowers like the coaches of old or in fairy tales,

full of children all dressed up for a suburban pastoral.

Even coffins under their somber canopies

lifting aloft their jet-black plumes,

bowling along to the trot

of huge mares, blue and black.