Autumn’s late. In the garden,
you're pointing out black-eyed Susans –
we’ve been here before.
Flowers breathe. The old man,
my father, pruned chrysanthemums,
stuck them in a bucket.
At the end of our drive,
commuters passed, looked twice,
left 50p for a bunch.
The ash trees have gone
(I’ve seen that now online).
Where we lived
between the stern
coordinates of ornamental firs
there’s off-road parking.
Against the wall
of our neighbour’s garden,
