Foot-torn, the path of leaves.
Dead, borders are green, still.
I am white. I turn.
I am now looking with paled eyes,
across a broken pit of river
up, above some untidy shack;
the train on the hill climbs,
smoke billows, a raincloud summoned
I turn back and see rows,
of autumn-blushed houses
fall silent on this minute.
You are only a passing mist.
A shuddered halt, a breath held.
Sound then spreads a slow grin;
the whistle spills idle chatter
down a nettled hill.