We become in this swell of evening
the shape
that regrets have gnawed out.
The dark is growing wider, colder
summer dismantling its loom
unweaves tissues
through which love seeped its raw green life
strands of flowery scents
and the silks of soft blue mist
hover heartful
gathered into a creeping shadow
that covers and blanks out
the glowing testimonials of beech and oak
to drain down the last sun
and with it the golden days.
Now there's nothing left to grab.
Silhouettes,
a few breaths still remember us
where a weightless moon
face pitted yet coolly lit
is on the rise
to give things back their fathomless privacy
as night falls
and all our colours burn out.