Primrose Hill, 2nd October – a poem

They come on the first Sunday of

October, to converse with the sun,

Which warms the blades of grass and shards

Of towering glass and even the hardest hearts,

For what could be the last time until

The seasons change again.

 

Laughter has no language here,

And the city’s careless clocks do not tick,

As couples walk backwards, hand in hand,

Swallowing with fond smiles the familiar skyline,

Passing by old friends who are sprawled

Out on their backs, recounting the past,

Treasuring the happy rays until their last.

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