After Christmas

The faded garden
was true
like the silence
of the willow strands
and the path toward
a living tunnel made
by creatures that shriek
in the gloom.

I sank my hands
into the soil when
not much was left
of the afternoon
apart from highlights
that came from somewhere
other than the sun.

I saw pink, blue
and cream enamel waiting
for our craft
of the night sky.

Relief rose off me
into a smur
that clung.

Wind, rain
and I was back inside
at my desk, notes,
lines and images taken
from the time
of the corn moon
when I saved,
and stacked
hope high.

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