Someone is eating humous on the bus.
It’s not even 8am.
Far too early for that faint smell of cucumber,
Someone is holding on to the freshness of Summer.
What’s the point.
Another whiff of fresh laundry and cheap newsagent coffee,
And I am ready for the cool breeze that sneaks under the window cracks,
In the turning of the season I find hope,
A cosiness and a shedding that will make me new.
Gone is the exposure of summer in it’s bare naked frame,
With it’s sweating and swelling and the game of
‘Just pretend to be enjoying yourself’.
Here in Autumn’s prologue there hangs the balance of life and death
As we bring in the harvest and watch the trees strip naked.
The cool burning smell of the morning
As everything stumbles back into routine.
We are living again and the rhythm returns,
Hurrying home to be close, to be known.