It was a sunny autumn day -
the sunlight soft
as baby’s first blonde hair
brushed against the right cheek.

An autumnal day of slanted light,
like that last promise we’d meet
that will never be met -

life intrudes and roosts,
curled toes and ruffled feathers, like pigeons
in the shadows of the truly intended words.

In the distance I heard the calls of men,
the umpires' whistles
and the faint thwump
of a leather ball being kicked.

My hand felt then, the skin
that shivered beneath the flannelette shirt
and I wondered what distant events
might kick this leather again.