Dew bejewelled spider webs span the handle

of the broken wooden fork

propped in the dirt like a cross for the fallen.

Khaki leaves scatter the garden but the bright Acer

still wears its scarlet uniform.

The shrill of a panicking blackbird’s pinking

pierces the steady scrunch of leaves decaying

while the slowly scouring scrape

of my rake across the sticky wet ground

disturbs the softly sweet scent

of those same dying leaves.

The rough wooden handle of my rake shakes

as I drag the tines across the ground

trying to tidy the fallen and to

order the unruly parade of grubby gravel

from which a few bold soldiers

jump for freedom into my deck shoes.

The taste of those relentlessly fading leaves

sits fatly on my tongue

like all the words I never spoke,

while the pebbles in my shoes

remind me to walk on the ghosts

of summer with care.