and

[wytchcroft]

and scarlet ribboned
woven round
these autumn trails

blown to a stand still
grave and gray
such a little way

a pause for thought
to feel the rain
the pressure on the glass

the curving track
where they laid her down
between the summer and the grass

it's an empty room
and a speaker phone
it's a rusty tongue
and guide

the yellowed book
that Beckett wrote
has coffee stains inside.