The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green; <br />Green, also, the grapes on the green vine <br />Shading the brickred porch tiles. <br />The money's run out. <br /> <br />How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters. <br />Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking. <br />The sun shines on unripe corn. <br />Cats play in the stalks. <br /> <br />Retrospect shall not often such penury- <br />Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas, <br />The leaden slag of the world- <br />But always expose <br /> <br />The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay <br />Against which the brunt of outer sea <br />Beats, is brutal endlessly. <br />Gull-fouled, a stone hut <br /> <br />Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers: <br />Across the jut of ochreous rock <br />Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired, <br />To lick the sea-salt.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/departure-103/
