Leaves

Burnt acorn smell by the Royal Hospital,

Oak leaves pad the sidewalks,
A wet thick fog from the river.

A pensioner with
      a little money to spend on cigarettes,
walks the grounds.

Steady hands clasped,
       another, battles are behind him

A survivor in a bathrobe advances
     stops, cane rooted, checks the yellow sky.

The leaves, withered brown, for months, cling on.

Torn by wind, or
     by the next front moving in.

Tonight, darkness and more wind,
     I miss the frost that turns the leaves
     a thrilling red.