If you had stood in the garden
(sharpening now to the austerity of a late Autumn)
stood silent in the dark,
you might have seen it.
Last night frost crept in secretly,
spreading its veil under cover
of fireworks. As rockets soared
and myriad star bursts of green,
white and red lit up the orchards
and glowing bonfire crowds,
it brushed the inappropriate rose,
the last minute nasturtium; then the
asters and border geranium that
should have know better than to
be out on a night like this.
As the Catherine wheel gave its
final tortured whirl of sparks
the petals turned from fondant
crisp to wilted confetti.
Apples shrank in the shed.
Bulbs tried unsuccessfully to
retreat into hard earth.
Frost takes no hostages.