The first days of autumn: a soft rain
has shifted from the hard stare of the sun
soaking the grounds. There is a sense
of melancholy, the scent of last roses drift
out across the lawn. I think of eyes searching
for the new dawn in an early mist.
The sky is inverted in the pond,
fragmented clouds settle after the intrusion
of a flute-playing Pan. From its head
dragonflies race home to the water lilies.
I take a snapshot with my camera
of crocheted spider webs, glitter on wings.
