Friday October 31st #halloween

31 October.

Morning slow to take shape, the light a pale smear above the roofs.
The house cold round the edges; you grind coffee, fill the French press, let the steam lift.
That smell—burnt caramel and earth—still enough to bring a kind of grace.

You step out to Sainsbury’s, collar up, pavement slick with leaves.
Lola’s gruel collected—£3.29 less of zero—and left waiting back at the house.
Duty done, you carry only the quiet of it as you head toward town.

Braine Road half-asleep: van doors, bin lids, a dog impatient somewhere.
The air smells of slow decay—leaves, damp brick, a hint of diesel.
Everything simmering down for winter, resigned, graceful in retreat.

North Street folds into York Road, traffic grumbling, drizzle needling the pavement.
Then Joseph C Roberts, Independent Family Funeral Director.
Glass so polished it returns the sky, clouds smeared like fingerprints of light.
A hearse idles, limousine behind, engines breathing their quiet smoke.
Inside, lilies, muted blinds, someone straightening a sleeve before the first mourner steps through.

The scent hangs in the air—flowers, exhaust, the faint warmth of something burnt.
It isn’t unpleasant; it carries weight and grace both.
A family about to be gathered, carried, set down again in silence.

You keep walking, coffee still steady in the blood,
the town unrolling ahead—damp, reductive, touched with grace.

From behind—one final voice from the Umbra:
“Races tomorrow!”
Then silence again, the fog reclaiming everything.