Red leaves over a fence

I walk the straight stretch of the canal southwards to the Tomnahurich swing bridge. Two boys on BMX bikes pass me, one shouting something I don’t catch. The trees are starting to turn and I take a few shots, but it needs another fortnight to develop into autumn. Approaching the bridge, the warning siren goes off. Blast! The bridge swings and we wait behind the eastbound barrier for a motor cruiser to come through. The BMX boys slip in front of me, their metal handlebars hard against the barrier, champing at the bit. A slightly older lad on a proper bike hangs back, as if he feels safer this way. He has a serious look on his face. At the other end of the opened bridge a hearse waits by the westbound barrier. Someone’s final journey has been temporarily arrested.

The barrier opens and the BMX boys scoot through. One is towing the other by means of a canvas strap, which doesn‘t look like the safest of arrangements to me. The hearse passes, but it holds no coffin.  The front seat male and female undertakers seem to be sharing a joke.  Halfway onto to the bridge, I say to the boy on the bigger bike, ‘do you want past?’ He does, but he passes me wordlessly. I wonder why he looks so serious. Does he have worries he can’t resolve, or is this how he always looks? He reminds me of a boy in the painting by which hangs in the National Gallery of Scotland.  He reminds me of me. People used say to me: ‘Don’t worry, it’ll never happen.’ I was never so sure.

I was too busy observing, to take a picture of any of this. Instead, I have some nice red leaves for you.