grey fall days make me want to go east,
she told me.
go east to where? I asked her.
I’ll only know when I get there.
the wind caught her hair as she strode before me,
a red flash parting the sea of clouds.
she said grey was her favourite colour;
I struggled to keep up with the wind.
at night she lit candles and looked out eastern windows
as a cold rain started to fall.
over tea she told me of ghosts that she’d met,
of the magic that comes only in autumn.
(I didn’t believe her.)
I lost her, one bright summer.
now I wait, with candles and tea in fine china,
for the wind and the first drops of cold rain.
on this grey day, I look east and await the ghost of her magic.