A rook neighs as I walk past the trees, a pained cry
for its lost voice. It is September and the earth and
the wind and the fire are singing it. After we meet,
she tells me of losing her husband in another town
and I forget to ask if he was found. As it is a
Sunday walk, when cars stop to ask for directions, I
tell them everything is already closed. The woman
is on the opposite pavement to me, pulling her boy
in a yellow wagon having crossed over the road
where it wasn’t safe to do so.
.
Mike Ferguson
.