The parasol trees must be golden at this hour, 

Beside the curving alley and its silent bower. 

The leaves are brown like father’s notebook, 

Clean and nameless, none would look. 

They become warm and crisp in the sun, 

Curled and firm like fruits of autumn. 

It’s the prettiest thing, to come free, 

In a windless air, or a motionless sea, 

For they float slowly to the ground.

A photographer waits on the ground, 

He uses his last film and goes home.