|
This is no time of year to visit,
the stone steps are slippery,
there is no more the promise
of blooms, more so a surprise
the odd rose on its bare stalk,
a pink one, a yellow one,
a spray of fuchsias like little
red bells, all the rest
brushed straight, the pond
half-depth, goldfish unseen,
benches against stone walls
the only posture.
The flagstone path ends
where you stand, movements
of breeze like spirits
investing the golden leaves. |
