Autumn symphony

from this
lofty window seat,
I watch the world below
in constant motion,
unaware of me.

if walkers looked this way,
I would be in their line of view,
but they seldom do.
they stroll by,
singly or in sets,
taking the air;
shooting the breeze;
pausing to roll a cigarette;
or, intent on their beckoning agenda
they rush forth, their eye on what is ahead;
unaware of the golden carpet of leaves,
which brush their swinging feet
as they shimmy with the wind.

children, freed from school,
skip alongside mums with buggies,
or dawdle, solumn and tired;
clutching thin bookbags,
with little thought of
kicking down the street
in a stream of prancing leaves,
to hear the rustling scratch.

 I don’t understand
the reason
they cannot see;
each burnished relic
from this summer’s growth
is a work of art to be treasured,
and when massed together
they are an orchestra,
impatient to play
an autumn symphony.

©Jane Paterson Basil