The rose I find
written in red
beneath the lattice
knows its own glory
...
The crunch under my boot,
remnants of a faraway summer
golden, brown and crimson
already disappearing
...
Sunday nights
are for murder,
something cosy
with a hint of spice
...
The silence has wrapped me
so long that I forgot
how to make words
dance in the sky
...
The brush and shuffle
of the working day
dance around me
...
The morning hums
with spiders,
thick white webs
casting shadows
...
You were wrong,
my poetic friend, because
October is the cruellest month, burying
dead leaves in dead soil, mixing
...