The first cold of November
The wind no longer at their backs
Strange light casts dun shadows
upon black asphalt seas
Puddled oil’s iridescent stains
survive the morning showers
like the rainbowed oyster’s shell
Beyond the gate to the park greens
Well worn path to the exposed heath
She speaks in the wind
He smiles and nods
The face that says
I can’t hear a bloody word
but I’ll pretend
to show that it still matters
She smiles and nods
The face that says
She knows, but it’s alright
Now lets go home and put on the kettle