JAMES MORSE

The subtle smell of cigarette smoke

moving through the air

so crisp

as the lists of winter’s fingers

reach

into the threads of summer’s seamless garment,

now autumn

weaving in between

fixed within what seems

to be marked

by increasingly dispersed

beams of light

yielding to the grey dialogue

of cloud-filled skies and concrete

meanwhile the trees are leaving their coats

at the door

and I

am grasping the collar of my jacket

waiting,

to head outside.

image: ‘The Road Menders’ by Vincent van Gogh