On the far side of the high bridge
stands a clump of willows
losing leaves
in the blank November lamplight.
The morning is all angles and degrees
like the coots practising lift-off
in their quarter of the pond
or the willows stopped
by nothing in the act of falling.
Two dark moons of mistletoe
in the treetops
lend themselves to the air of observation
and habit below:
half-inflated swans seeing off dogs,
a pair of crows discussing their arthritis,
people carried round the park
on a thin grey carousel.
Last leaves stencil the white horizon
with waders’ feet
and the bridge is behind me.
Will Eaves is the author of five novels, two books of poetry and, most recently, a book of essays, “Broken Consort” (CB Editions)
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This article appears in the 09 Dec 2021 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas Special