Where October Begins

Past the last bus stop, rain has coated the night,
leaves lie bruised and shining in the lane.
The gutters catch the porch lamps’ light,
while tyres hiss softly through the rain.

Three streets away, a chimney feathers smoke,
its cedar sweetness settling into clothes.
A screen door slams; our tree branch broke,
and apples breathe beneath their paper rows.

The evening grows colder, harsh against skin,
while bare trees stitch shadows on the ground.
A dog barks once behind a garden bin,
then silence gathers tightly around the sound.

One window glows above the empty street,
a square of gold the darkness cannot eat.

Beyond the houses, asphalt turns to stone,
then mud, then leaves compressed beneath my feet.
My phone screen dims; the streetlights stand alone,
their gold dissolving down the street.

A rusted gate hangs open in the rain,
its iron slick beneath my searching hand.
Beyond, a bonfire stains the trees again,
and pumpkins sink like moons into the land.

The night smells rich with cedar and pear,
wet wool, smoke, and something sweet;
a shape slips briefly through the air,
and leaves go whispering beneath my feet.

Behind, the porch lights blur to amber flame.
Ahead, the dark seems almost like a name.