The Prodigal

On the porch,
door ajar
hear a neighbour
raking leaves.

Smell the smoke
from a bonfire -
watch the red school bus
as it stops
in its customary place.

Half smile, half wave
at the Patterson’s youngest –
satchel with an attitude
coat with a mind of its own
as he swings on the lamp post
heads off down the road.

On the Autumn-weary willow
by the house across the street
the last remaining leaves
hold out against the breeze.
Intent on remaining
till tomorrow at least.

Street lamps vie for life
faintly flicker,
in the end
hold their own.
Overhead, a far-off plane
leaves a herringbone trail
glows crimson
in the sun’s dying rays.

A cold, damp nose
nuzzles at my palm
and doleful eyes
look up at mine
that seem to say,
“It was bad to run away
but I do apologise.”

And a tail that lets me know
in no uncertain terms
he’s happy to be home.
Now he is …
so am I.