Changeless

Three sycamores down the road, High, blotched, shaken in the cold A field; cut in its grass, A pool, like small, wild gold.

And this was all I saw. As you came by with me A day last week. Now you are dead. What is it that I see?

Three sycamores down the road. High, blotched, shaken in the cold; A field; cut in its grass, A pool, like small, wild gold.