Morning settles on the garden with the benign, wet smile of a holy idiot, brushing chilly dew on bare footsoles, grubbed by the unswept path. It rests soft elbows on the garden fence, tracing cobwebs with a lazy finger. It doesn’t mind. It says that I can take it if I want it. I try not to notice and light a cigarette.
Earth-smells of morning
fade beneath my exhaled smoke.
Morning coughs, but smiles.
The garden is greener with rain and all is swollen in the sea-mist – door and gate and eyelid saturated stubborn. It would take a month of sunshine to draw out all the moisture – make them fit again, but it is too late now. It’s autumn already.
Wood deck and fence post
suck rain through shared memories
of being a tree
Inside the house, the air, too is saturated from the laundry and last night’s words which condense in rivulets against the coldness of the window pane. Your breath, now lingering in liquid, sticks folds of greying net onto the glass as it creeps downward, stitch by stitch. I wonder how long your presence will circulate the microclimate of the house, now that you’re gone.
Morning sky opens
in blue and flashing fork-tail.
Last of the swallows.