Today's leaf has leathery sheen, a memory of Autumn
Outside The Compasses, all I can see of the small baby under the hood of the push chair is a tiny hand, relaxed, fingers slightly curled like fresh petals. The mother leans over to check that all is well. It is sleeping and oblivious to clouds of volcanic dust overhead and political debates on the TV.
In The Grove, just a few daffodils remain. An old lady shows another old lady a bunch that she has collected. They admire the flowers. "A little beauty in your life," says one to the other.