On a modest avenue leading to the sea, the speaker imagines dream-deities taking an afternoon stroll. The street itself is unremarkable—neither broad nor beautiful—yet an “African-born wind” brings a feeling close to warm, unexamined domestic happiness. The mood is quiet and a little uncanny: comfort arrives without reasons, the way a dog in shade might recognize its master. But there is grief underneath. Clouds become travelers who pray for dead children or children who never arrived; the street is “treeless,” and yet it offers shade. The speaker suggests that music, or meaning, is not only found in sleep, dreams, or gods, but also in ordinary closeness—even if something lost drifts near that happiness. The result is an elegiac, meditative October scene, poised between absence and quiet contentment.
Avenue in October — Summary
The deities of dream Take their afternoon stroll down this street Leading to the sea.
This avenue is neither Broad nor beautiful, But the African-born wind rises And leaves something here Akin to the warm And domestic happiness Of those who don’t ask why.
The clouds sketch The outline of the travelers Who discover the waves and pray For their dead children, Or for the ones that never arrived, Like this treeless street In whose shade the dog May recognize its master And know how music Is not solely from the world That sleeps and dreams, Nor from those gods Who stroll through the evening And walk down to the sea Should there be something adrift Even close to This happiness.