The moon has crossed the path of the sun
And all is darkness in the day.
A lone red fox crosses the road
But all the owls are hid away.

Mountains of solid jet
Stretch up on either side;
The road is dull as lead -
It seems the world has died.

The fox stands still upon the road,
His brush hangs down like a loaded bough
When the plums are ripe and the fields are mowed -
Black shadows sweep the mountain's brow.

Will the light come - now?