Dave Bonta strings together a series of short, haiku-like moments, and almost all of them sit in autumn. A poetry festival, a churchyard labyrinth, a wet sidewalk, a November garden: the speaker drifts through places and notices small things, like the cosmos left in the flower beds, a mouse under a table, or an ash tree full of starlings. Literary names such as Keats and Blake appear, which suggests a mind that reads as it wanders, and the line about a pop-up brothel adds a wry note about the modern city.
Underneath the observation runs a steady sense of loss. "The immensity of our loss" is stated plainly, and the speaker's "autumn face" suggests ageing as well as the season. The mood is quiet, reflective and a little chilly, but not hopeless; there are touches of humour and wonder, such as the "small circus" found while hunting mushrooms. The ending, with the moon over a station and the thought of belonging to just one place, leaves the speaker restless and still moving.