The Walled Garden

The skin of the harvest moon – terracotta flakes –
spiked the fluted greens, like the notes
you played on the piano to exorcise your grief.

In the soft brace of air, cabbage whites
fold their wings to pale green, slight
on the bramble blossom and apple leaves.

Here, there’s an endowment of stillness to ease
your heavy ache for love. Stepping over pools
of broken glass, you look up to the windows

of the house, where the living, vacant and gaunt,
watch your shadow spill over the lawn and slip
through the wrought-iron gates.

Sue Davies