Nothing marks the year moving on so well as
the leaves in the park transported by November
gales. ‘In step, men’ or should I say ‘mice’; lifted,
brown and scuttling, their year’s work done, already
composting with nature’s relentless efficiency,
their sopping undersides rotting; already half way to
humus and chased underneath hedges for ferrying
to the underworld by worms to become, without
delay, the richness of another year coming.
