Our supple living green has turned to paper.
Rusty, soon to be shadows wander around.
The rushing south-westerly is a friend,
saying anyway it’s time to blow this town.
Autumn rain darkens terracotta tiles
to match the rotting leaves, tones down
white eaves, redbrick walls and gables,
soaking pavements from beige to brown.
Even the clouds, leading my way
at dusk, back down this road in Harrow,
kiss goodbye to pearlescent yesterdays,
thinking, echoing only woodsmoke.