I know where all the best paths
in my town are
I stride out daily
seeking out the trees, and
they welcome me –
autumn leaves whispering
stories in the breeze

they’re teaching me how

to tune into memories

long dormant in my head.

Our autumn days seem endless

colder now at night and the early

mornings are frost breathed, but

the low sharp sun’s rays

offer a warm drowsy middle day and

in this long slow slide

into winter, the autumn colour

is a palette of burnished gold

burgundy shades of red shades of

green patterned in the trees

scattered on the ground.

It’s the angle of the sun

the way it works with the breeze

to shift the shadows

illuminating the leaves, the dazzle

and daze that sharpens memory:

how we pushed your newborn

baby brother in his pram

through the autumn afternoons

of ‘84 you, at two, trotted

beside me stopping

to scoop up armfuls

from the oaks and toss them

into the air scattering them

kicking your tiny feet and leaping

like a frisky puppy

into someone’s carefully raked piles.

This is the memory conjured

by a walk on a lingering autumn day

thirty-six years later.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk again.

Beverley Lello