I passed a church I pass five times a week
A small group of people were outside
Held by the softest shade of black
Long coats, tall hats.
Covered in the height of their exposure
An old man joined a quiet pair,
He was gentle in his laughter with them,
A reminiscence kind of low giggle
That warmed their faces for the moment
I passed the adjoining car park
Where two similarly clothed women stood together
In that cosy, guarded stance,
With their arms tucked around their ribs
One broke her seal to bring a breath of smoke
To her cold, fidgeting lips
They had both welcomed colourful beanies
When that shiny, empty air
Met them outside the church
And they both watched a young girl,
In the newest black pumps
And the cleanest black coat,
form a pile of leaves in front of them.
She sat on the balls of her feet
With that kind autumn light warming her face
And igniting the yellows and reds in her pile
She hugged her knees with one arm for balance
While using the other to fix the slow crumble
Of this bright and brave form
The little girl stood briefly
And ran around to survey the other faces of her pile
Ensuring they held strong
In that barely-there breeze
I could not tell her plan, I thought she may kick it,
Sending the leaves flying as if,
Once again, leaving the trees they grew from
I could not watch any longer.