An October Morning

A dark October morning, Tuesday by the riverside, the world

waiting for the clocks to turn;   he stood where once they had stood together,

at the widening of the path near the old bridge.

He contemplated the remains of the last night’s steady rain

still twisting around the dying leaves of the trailing willows

to fall as black drops into the black water below.

On a day of monochrome, as he looked on

the colour was leaching out of the tired docks and nettles

along the path side;  even the abandoned drink cans and chocolate wrappers

were fading to grey. He blew on his hands,

thinking to move on, but no longer sure

where there might be next to go.

This was the two hundredth day:  sadly,

he had kept a careful count of the time,

of the year widening, warming and glowing,

challenging his dismay with its riot of summer colours

and with songs he could not share.  Now,

as the year was closing in on itself again

he considered that real and other world

in which people did and said sensible things, and played their happy games, and

made safe and good decisions. 

Once, he had aspired to that world.

Its promises had attracted and all but ensnared him, along with her;

he had longed to dwell in that perfect sunshine brightness.

But his days had grown darker long before the season turned.

And on this two hundredth day since she had said she had to go,

he was standing there once more, crumpled as the chip papers scattered by the broken bin,

while the river flowed on, black and unregarding.

Why did you demand to live in the real world, he wondered again;

why could there have been no life for you in mine?

He had expected that they would find him there, surprised only

that it had taken two hundred days of looking.  He turned

at the sound of the car door’s slam,

watched as the two men walked towards him, hands in pockets,

raincoat collars turned against the chill.

It would soon be time to go.