The Poetry Society

Walking in the square, through the damp and misty still mild
air of a late October Sunday morning.

Only at the second circuit do I meet another person: a young
family, parents and children

but otherwise the paths are empty - and the tennis court, the
sandpit and climbing frame, seven acres

of grass and flowers, shrubs and trees: the delicious colours
of the leaves and their softened texture

like the gloves and handbag from the wardrobe of an elegant,
ageing woman; the last few roses, gnarled

buds scentless this late in the year, some stalky toadstools:
as if all for my sole pleasure.

Suddenly I think it's raining - not that I feel the drops but
because of the sound - and watch a shower of

leaves detach from their branch with the same ease, the moment
come to let go, that I hope for.