December Sonnet

At evening jugglers travel through the forest On quaint wagons, small steeds. A golden stash seems locked in clouds. In the dark plain villages are painted. The red wind billows linen black and cold. A dog rots, a shrub smokes blood-doused. The reed is flown through by yellow horror And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery. The old man's hut dwindles nearby in the gray, In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens; The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine. A boy glides shyly to a woman. A monk fades in the darkness soft and dark. A bleak tree is a sleeper's sexton.