Ask Not

In the park,

up on the high Edge,

overlooking the valley and its silent mills,

the leaves fall;

orange, ochre, sienna

and even a hot vermillion.

Around the figure

on its pedestal,

branches have kept their counsel:

the old flagstones

named after the county

are bare of discarded foliage.

The list of names

has Smiths, Browns, Wilsons

and a dozen multi-syllabic, white-rose signifiers.

A woman cries,

both sides bemedalled

and none speak to ask for whom the tears fall.

At eleven,

the church bells ring

tolling for the long dead, from a mile away.