Part 1 of Out in the Open: a poem by Tomas Transtromer

The labyrinth of late autumn.
A discarded bottle lies at the entrance to the wood.
Walk in.  The forest in this season is a silent palace of abandoned rooms.
Only a few, precise sounds: as if someone were lifting twigs with tweezers;
as if, inside each tree trunk, a hinge was creaking quietly.
Frost has breathed on the mushrooms and they've shrivelled up;
they are like the personal effects of the disappeared.
It is almost dusk.  You need to leave now
and find your landmarks again: the rusted implements out in the field
and the house on the other side of the lake, red-brown
and square and solid as a stock-cube.