Sunday Afternoon in Forest Hill

My street
Is like a favourite book
Thats different every time I look
Today it is a winters day and chill
I sit me in my window sill
Behind
The crackle of the front room fire
A sense of warmth and comfort does inspire
My window looks onto a street
That’s lined with trees
And garden walls
Where dead leaves in the gutters sleep
A yellow snow
That autumn reaped
The street is still
For it is Sunday afternoon
In Forest Hill
Where soft drizzle
Trickles down the window pane
Accelerating fast
Then slow
Again
The whine of motor car
A missed gear change
Enters in my sleepy brain
Then fades into the distance
Grinding
Like it was in pain
This Sunday afternoon
In Forest Hill
In London
In the rain
Where warm lights
Begin to fill
The drawing rooms
Of terraced houses
Up the hill
The street a winter picture now
And still
Except that steady drip of dripping rain
Black trees across the road
Reflect late light
That’s drawing back
Awaiting night
To render white
The edges of dark branches
Reaching finger like
Prepared to face cold winter's spite
On Sunday afternoon
In Forest Hill
A Robin sings
December song
Short
Sweet
And then is gone
Into the ivy on the wall
There to pass this night
A feather ball
In Forest Hill
Slow footsteps heard
Along the street
Denote approach
It is a lady old who wears
A smart grey coat
With silver brooch
Walking proud
Erect
Serene
No falter in her step is seen
Her stick tap, tap upon the pave
Her neat grey hair still has a wave
Topped off with small black hat
From church
This lady’s coming back
Alone amongst the yellow leaves
She travels home
To drink warm tea
And sit
With memories
On Sunday afternoon
In Forest Hill
My signal on this winters day
To close the curtains
Turn away
Sit by the fire
Then later on
I shall retire
To bed
And dream
Of spring
In Forest Hill

_

Egal Bohen