Wrong turn

You can't ask the trees not to litter

It's how they make over for summer

Along the streets the yellow leaves

Have been swept into little piles for

Being set on fire, smoke from which

Stokes stabs of nostalgia for a city

Receding into remote corners of a mind

Fast losing its words, places and faces

Children from a passing vehicle cheer

The weekend freeing them of classes

I remember my son waking up crying

On Saturdays thinking he had school

His smile of relief after was precious

I take a wrong turn and find myself lost

For a while in a neighbourhood no more

Recognisable with its fancy new shops

The frightening dreams of losing my way

Seem to have found their way into waking.