Autumn Street

Black, wet tarmac and behind the fence the park,

a stare ablaze with rusty orange-yellows

in the marvelled fixity of its own touch of haze.

And turf ground where the tarmac ends,

a bounty of silence smelling of memories like manes.

Sign of the majestic declining of the year.

A start also down under

with the maze of mothers in the glistening dark

waiting for your return and alluring you in the meantime

with whispers of immortal familiarity through the night

entangled in their loom of braids.