Sylvia Plath

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.