How do I start to tell the story?
The pale stars? The sky's dim glow?
The clouds that gathered silently above Bookbinder Road?

And the roses in the garden watched when the moment froze
As the door to that summer closed

Where do I continue? With the fullness of the moon?
Or the air that smelled of apples and [bad word] soon?

Stood on the empty pavement where seagulls dove and rose
As the door to that summer closed

Finally we settle with the view from a quiet room
And we end the story with the garden still in bloom