Leaves.

Leaves lie wet and ichor-green on the edges of the sky-black pavement. Dark: a mirror for the sky. Marble smooth and flecked with wisps of cloud that line the heavens like the hair of an old man. I’m not currently concerned with that though. My attention is still taken with the leaves. They run in rough lines like a rotting carpet, flattened by the constant stamp, stamp, stamp of feet and car tyres. That’s not to mention bicycles or dogs, cats, children or university students. The road curves: narrowly missing a small forest filled with stinging nettles, an army of yellowed tree soldiers that are waiting for a war that will never come and a pall of darkness that never goes away, unlike the night which never stays. It rushes like someone late for an appointment, always in a hurry to darken another doorstep or dally round tall buildings, shading shadows around rooftops and window sills.

It makes me think of death.