We’ve given up the long rise to the look-out, and your
favourite, fox-frequented path through the woods, and
now stick to grassy levels where, despite
the crispness turning chill, parents still
loose their kids and youth cavorts.

You say this afternoon you’re feeling fine, but
with an undertone that adds: for the time
being and under the circumstances.
Good, I answer, and we observe and
enjoy the timeless Indian Summer.

(Ever the meteorologist, you remark that, scientifically, no
such fixed lull and sunny idyll exists.)

We pass by food-packed hampers on bright,
fringed blankets, busy parents ensuring their
offspring won’t get cold or lost, four-chord
strummers wailing earnest tunes, the boyish,
charming lover visibly pressing his suit.
The young, as Yeats expressed it, in one another’s arms.

Eternal things. Of which the Poets sing . . . .
So that when the light starts to fail,
and you’ve abruptly tired,
we turn home, knowing we’ve made
the most of our shortened walk.