This month is the arsonist. It strikes
its match and trees catch fire down every street,
out across the country lanes, all the way to Wales.
No mists here, but leaves cut out of glass
stained crimson, carmine, orange, gold.
Your colours fly from every mast.
You never belonged down in the tube-lit room,
trapped in a web of wires and tubes, and will not stay
a minute longer than you must.
The machines open their hands, lose
their grip on you, and you are gone, flown
ahead of us, along the clanging corridor
up the stairs and out. Out at last
to where the day fires up and speaks to you
in tongues of blackbirds, London buses, cars,
taxis, human voices, trumpets, cymbals,
joyful brass. You head off on Brompton Road
and the leaves are flames
that light you up, your face aglow,
not looking back, knowing this is the way
to go.