Autumn leaves

Autumn leaves

It might be wishful thinking

A colonial quirk

But everyone I meet is adept

At broken English

Minding their step

Tending their business

Skirting the worst of the dog mess

Creaking with the effort

Of staying alive

Brittle bones.

Leaves the size of dinner plates

Pile up at my feet

Undecided

But decidedly able to bury

My sorry ass

If the wind changes.

On a clear day

I can still hear the whistle

Of steam from a train

Taking coal to the harbour.

The smell of diesel

From the engine

On the coal lorries

The rattle

Of chains as the

Bottom falls out of the hoppers.

Nobody else does

It is part of the magic

We are all here

Sitting alongside each other

Sharing space,

Separately, together.

And as I nod along

To the rhythm

The separation as thin as paper

As wide as an ocean.

I see Miles Davis ride by

On an e-scooter

Clutching the makings

Of another cool session

Close to his chest.

If I close my eyes

I can hear a kind of blue

Washing over my soul

It can be lonely

Waiting for a seed change,

But as the time comes

I can hear the music

Getting louder.

Even when there

Is no sound at all.