The trees have changed into autumn clothes,
Yellow and brown for the end of the year,
But each tree in the wild wood knows
The winds of winter are almost here.
Now no air blows the dying leaves,
The troops of the cold are not yet here,
But day by day they make their way,
And if they listen, the trees can hear
The rhythmic beat of the army’s feet.
Then weak, defenceless and exposed,
The trees are unprepared for fight,
And the icy blasts of winter’s storms
Will strip them bare
And leave them standing helpless there.
But this is good.
This is the way.
When least expected,
On some dull and windy day,
In March or April,
When the tired fields lie wet with rain,
And from the west more clouds blow in,
Green leaves will come again.