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