A benevolent sun throws its wide radiant arc over this turf of green
spilling rays of liquid gold
this late October evening in Islington;
A sweet wind spins in gentle drafts, trees crackle above the grind of red bus tyres
on the sooty asphalt;
Workmen hammer and call across to each other at a building site.
On a park bench, thinking I want more of the poet’s season of the maturing sun
I wear dark shades yet I squint,
my cheek catching at once the burn from the sky then the tingle from the breeze;
At my feet, brittle brown leaves
scud and roll like crabs on a dry beach.
Angel folk walk past in lazy little steps, laughing.
I want a slice of this pie
to relish it and bask in its frescoes before winter comes to snatch it
The street is a-blush –
Its red-bricked walls deeper, the whitewashed facades mellower and the trunks of trees blacker than I remember them …
This is God’s lush palette, the best at the last:
Too soon the footsteps on the pavement turn urgent.
The light goes out.
It is time.
© Millicent Danker
27 October 1999 / 15 May 2013