Temper of Time

An ill wind is stalking

While evil stars whir

And all the gold apples

Go bad to the core.

Black birds of omen

Now prowl on the bough;

With a hiss of disaster

Sibyl's leaves blow.

Through closets of copses

Tall skeletons walk;

Nightshade and nettles

Tangle the track.

In the ramshackle meadow

Where Kilroy would pass

Lurks the sickle-shaped shadow

Of snake in the grass.

Approaching his cottage

By crooked detour,

He hears the gruff knocking

Of the wolf at the door.

His wife and his children

Hang riddled with shot,

There's a hex on the cradle

And death in the pot.