Letters to November (i)

The world – my corner of it – felt like a poem today. I bathed in its sentences, spellbound by the ordinary from my perch on the top deck of the bus into town.

Everywhere, leaves yolk-yellow, in drifts – where once laid snow – on the roadside, clinging hopefully to branches almost bare; a young girl pink-helmeted, wheeling beneath a motorway underpass framed by carpets of damp, decaying leaves; the remains of last night’s jack-o’-lanterns flung into the park; the shy cat, ginger(,ly) parading along nextdoor’s fence; pegs, festooned with rain, swinging from unused washing lines.

Later I walked through the city in the blackness, too keen on life, too keen on November, too keen on the novelty of new, smoky, amber autumn nights, to punch my return bus ticket. Stars winked above, strung like a pearl necklace in the heavens.