Cathedral

Six days later, I am along the ancient land,

that path of loose dirt, dust in broken wind.

I catch the particles, construct the way,

so I can find your broken footprints.

My eyes betray me, soft,

they are traitors of the mind, like a magpie

chipping at the constitution of what works

and how to stay alive. Bookmarked,

they open the page on sun stretching

between falling leaves.

It’s an early autumn this year,

where the falling of leaves drown

the ringing in my ear.

My favourite shade of all the light

traced in the veins of falling leaves,

dancing on its last breath, dancing

in the reigning wind. The path of dust,

or should I look at these specs like fairies

of what once was.

It’s a different type of falling to be running.

You’re being chased into summer as leaves fall

behind you. You’re away, days ago, breathless,

still. Soft, soft, softer, lost in wind.