In Dulwich Woods with Harry the Dog

Dulwich Wood dusk.
Bronze sky, autumn bronze
the late year’s leaves, an orange
overload. Harry takes the
fallen trees and brambled
sideways like a steeplechaser,
all grace. The light fails,
and then he’s at my side.
Through baring branches
a street lamp draws the dark
about its haloed head, and to the
north the city skyline glitters;
seems like half a world away.
Let’s home, fella.
In the dark your sight’s
as good as mine.