Hyde Park in October
I cannot paint a picture in oils to capture its beauty;
I cannot weave melodies to contain its music;
I can only write:
Of the leaves that swirl in complicated patterns,
The trees that bend and sway in gusts
The glowering sky and avenues of colour.
Couples walk arm in arm,
Wrapped in each other against the cold
And flights of pigeons glide like autumn leaves
Grey against grey sky
To land in a body losing all grace in the action.
These words, this pen, are lonely -
Autumn is a cold time of year.
1993
I cannot weave melodies to contain its music;
I can only write:
Of the leaves that swirl in complicated patterns,
The trees that bend and sway in gusts
The glowering sky and avenues of colour.
Couples walk arm in arm,
Wrapped in each other against the cold
And flights of pigeons glide like autumn leaves
Grey against grey sky
To land in a body losing all grace in the action.
These words, this pen, are lonely -
Autumn is a cold time of year.
1993
