Oh, My Dear Octavia

by Toe-walker

Into town

Here you are, home at last.
Stories from seasons past
Hang in the eaves.
Listening, carry on,
Noisily tread upon
Colourful leaves.

Neighbourly nods bequeath
Happiness underneath
Hanging festoons.
Chilly winds wax and wane,
Catching your chestnut mane,
Whistling their tunes.

Everywhere, chatter stirs,
But a grand matter spurs
You to press on.
Talk of what lies ahead
Flies through your charging head.
Then you are gone.

There it is, finally.
Sharply sprint, cravingly,
To your abode,
Tidy and picturesque.
Skip to your writing-desk.
Free what you stowed.