Here is a lovely poem to remind us of balmy autumn days.
A black-clad, widowed, British lady
sits silent in a yawning dark doorway:
hands blue-veined as marble at peace in her lap;
warmed by her treasured memories.
A marmalade cat sits sentry
and all the while, pale sunshine flits in shadowy corners.
The air, while still,
is pregnant with the sweet
smells of warm earth blending
with sharp citrus groves: oranges and lemons.
A church bell chimes, splicing the quiet;
(a faint memory stirs, ‘The bells of St. Clements’?)
Out of nowhere, stealthy breezes blow through the palms.
They keep their counsel.