A warm front mops the sky,
Wads of clouds moving briskly
Above the rooftops and
chimneypots.
Lunch hour, we must be out of
doors,
Heading for the little park
With its stripped trees and
hedges.
Up and down the street, the
buildings
Are simply taken with sun --
Brick and stone coloring, every
feature unfolding
(Ledge, lintel, pillar, cornice) in
afternoon light.
We're warmer out than in.
We perspire in our coats.
Halfway down the block,
hatless and unzipped,
We get lost in an updraft of
time --
What season is this, so balmy
out of turn?
How sweetly it takes us by the
throat,
Leading us around the next
corner
Into shadow
And a sudden chill.