A game of forsaken croquet

A storm of afflictions
dispersed the croquet game this year
and left abandoned my brother's chicory clotted yard
dangling upon a strand of road
that runs through country
where once the Tully monster lived.

A tradition spurned for any reason
must be appeased
it cannot pass unnoticed
a whisper, a thought, a trace of memory
is enough to trip the web
and compound our adversities.

Deep in October
when the heart calls out 
and answering shapes
press through veils of falling leaves
we lay out the stakes and wickets
retire early and await
the vivid sleep
that draws down the milkspore moon
eager for the specter of sport.