Teams of dry leaves
Are blown down the main road
As if on their way to the dust bowls
It is the drying, late winter wind
Which takes the warmth of the sun
To release the autumn from the vegetation
They have moved on as I have moved on
Both of us in search of somewhere
Which can only be found
In the quieter distance
I walk awhile
And I am aware
I walk this way
To stop and stare
I’d walk for miles
Or at least a half
But it is my trouble
A failing calf
I don’t have a window
That I can sit and look out of
But I can stand
As might have done those weavers
To catch the light in their Yorkshire cottages
I do have a standing desk
Which I could move
To be front and square of the view
But what about my sitting space
And my hi-fi stereo separates
My legs feel cool
I haven’t bothered
With the thermal long johns
I have bought a lot of food
That I shouldn’t have
So I will eat it quickly
My two grandsons
School photographs
Look good in my window
