And the blackberries would arrive
With the close of summer
Then a change in good things
That flutter behind wide eyes would begin

And the pungent fresh morning mint leaves would shrivel and die
Replaced with heaps of golden and brown coffins
Like broken limbs from a basket case heart
Littering the garden path with those memories
Which I would stamp on hard with my feet for bringing me here at all

And the doors would be locked
So tight that not a word of grief could escape them  
And then the sun would begin to  drop
Eventually leaving us apart in the dark where I would not hear a word of anything said
But would train my ear to pick up the small whine from the grandfather in the lower hall

And I would press my face so close against the thin glass door that I would go numb
And then for that second I would not think about anything
and I would live in bliss for that small moment
Savouring the lack of feeling