A mottled S written upon the ground,
I found you clearing away the fallen leaves
amongst the detritus by the garden fence.

Poised, legs apart, a perfect miniature,
you stood perfectly still with eyes fixed forwards,
a statue carved perhaps from cold hard flint.

Mutually locked in a Medusa stare, we found ourselves
stationary, afraid to make the other start.
I lost and turned. Perhaps you remain there still.

The final throes of summer sent me gardening this afternoon.
(06.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo Kristian Peters CC BY-SA 3.0