October takes the colour down a little every day. The street is full of people and the people feel away. The kettle sings, the bus comes on time, the paper's on the step, and every room I walk into feels like somebody just left. So I button up my jacket, take the long way round the square, through the side gate where the gravel starts, and I find my feet in there. Everybody's here, not one short, not one more. Out there the empty's out of place, in here it's what it's for. I take the bench beside the tap and unwrap bread and cheese. The leaves come down across the stones as easy as you please. My shoulders drop, my hands get warm, I read along the rows, I lift my cap to all of them. Nice crowd. Everybody's here, not one short, not one more. Out there the empty's out of place, in here it's what it's for. Out there I count the living and I never get it right. In here I count the stones, and they add up. Everybody's here, not one short, not one more. Out there the empty's out of place, in here it's what it's for. Everybody's here, not one short, not one more. Out there the empty's out of place, in here it's what it's for. They lock the gate at half past four this end of the year. Same time tomorrow, then. Everybody's here. Nice crowd.
