Dead leaves and yellow light

I catch the first smell of wood smoke
as I walk past the weir.
The water bears the weight
and noise of last night’s storm.
The trees are black with last night’s rain,
and the cold has risen to hang in the dips
at the bottom of hills, beside the wheat field
and the tyre factory, the railway line
and the bowling green, past Nestle’s plant,
the smell of sour milk,
and my old secondary school,
its broad playing field and cages
where football’s played
under the high, white lights in the evenings.