Leaves scrape at glass, gather in a crackle,
fill yard corners with bright memories
and gossip at the edge of winter’s mercy.

Their brittle voices are already precious
ghosts, disturbing skeletals,
colours dashed against the wall,
to the ground, summer kites unbound.

I’ll move them later, gather up each voice
that was, listen to the echoes leaving
in the wind and wonder how it’s done,
this unstrung madness falling into grace.