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