The autumnal

The Autumnal.

The trees, in the park, that bears lilac flowers and look
pretty in summers, are shedding their ochre leaves.
It is November but summer is still clinging on, a losing
battle, shakily pale in the morning, gather strength and
throw masculine heat about at noon, but pales after three
blending in with autumnal evensong.

I picked up a handful of leaves they felt soft and rich by
the touch, should I take some home, better not they will
end up on my bookshelf, curl up dry and die; reminding
me of years spent on iron decks in the company of men
who spoke of nothing but the last whore they had had in
some harbour hotel.

And I had stayed away from family and friends so long
that when I came home there was no one left, I was alone
walking in streets that resented my company.