Autumn dust

Crisp gold carpet
cracks like fire
sunrise paints
its corridor

of pink across
the ancient moat:

the ghosts are out
at dawn, beckoning.

I ride the Roman
highway to the hills
seagulls scream across
the naked fields

scent of earth
deep loamy.

Time unravels
into spools
of memory,

a frosted farmyard
light snow on small
child’s jacket, a high
walled garden

where the river
flows: where the
river fills its bornage
to the brim.

The ghosts are out
tonight, their sticky
fingers clutching,
their mute voices

taunting.

How many promises
broken? How many
hearts  unspooled

by this thing
called love?