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At the solstice hour

People dressed in wood

Lure into their leafage

Birds without faces.

The wandering stream

Drags towards the shores

Its memories of snow.

My sylvan trees

Have reddened with summer’s first day.

The men from the town

Said that was rust

Blown in from Japan.

But they don’t know

That the trees in this coomb

In their deepest secret roots

Stroke living stones

That start to dream

That the wind and the rain

Will take them naked on clay

At the solstice hour.