Out here in the
garden this morning
it’s dark, misty and quiet,
just the sound of the trains
and the traffic in the distance,
nearby, the cry of a raven.

All around me I can hear
the leaves of the ash tree falling
a golden rain, a golden carpet
soft under my feet,
and all is peace.

When I go home
my soul will be imprinted with
the shapes of these London houses,
dark in the light of the dawn,
chimneys like ancient battlements
along the terraces,
and out here behind them
an oasis of trees, roses
and prowling cats.

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