Harvested purple hours
Came in hay and rain scent.
There was a faint distance along the Binn road.
A globe of dew held all that was possible.
At a last memory,
Storm clouds formed worn hands of saints over a tungsten dusk.
Began a coda of faint music scoring our unrevised time.
Beyond the village gate,
Fires were held in a fused glass of dusk.
Waking with failing eyes –
A slow synesthesia of silver trees
Scrawled tone-poems in shades of fennel and mint,
As wind became water in choirs of remaining leaves.
It was a Kenophobia before the open door of autumn.
It was ascended silhouettes from dry cornfields –
It was shadows from an unguarded perimeter of night –
It was a taste of seawater and blood of lovely maples in the darkening garden.
It was always as it should have been.
Our memories were almost complete.
It was all that was possible
As light from a quadrillion galaxies
Circled in a globe of morning dew.