I take photographs
To remind me of the light
To remind me of the season
To remind me of the vulnerability
To say to me
How good it would be if you were here
Sat, on this bench
As we sat on that bench, in Bilbao
Although today
At least here anyway
There are no flâneurs
There are no locals
Walking out to share a life
Dressed in their Sunday best
Deep in communal conversation
As though there really was no tomorrow
Of course, unlike some
We still have all, or at least most
Yes, for certain, some of our tomorrows
Which may well require a form of closer scrutiny
Perhaps a lazy, laconic, poetry video
Of the leaves, slowly drifting to the ground
At Buckfastleigh, or Buckfast Abbey
In the autumn of two-thousand-and-sixteen
