Harvested purple hours

Came in scent of cut hay and rain.

There was a growing distance along the Binn road.

The expanding fields became still.

In early morning,

Globes of dew mirrored all that was possible.

Storm clouds formed worn hands of ancestors in tungsten and ash,

As brush-strokes of stars faded into light.

Along the village green,

Fires were held in a fused glass of civil dawn,

And from another December,

It was a slow synesthesia of silver trees

And scrawled tone-poems in shades of fennel and mint.

In a Kenophobia before the open door of winter,

There were ascended silhouettes from dry fields of corn –

Intrusions from the unguarded perimeter of waking –

A scent of seawater and blood of lovely maples in the darkening garden.

It was always as it should have been.

Our memories were almost complete,

As twilight from a quadrillion galaxies

Fell over a distance along the Binn road,

And globes of dew,

Mirrored all that was possible.