Pumpkin Soup Poem by Matt Mooney

Seagulls standing in a windswept field
Look exactly like the way I feel
After leaving London on a Sunday afternoon.
Slowly mile by mile the night comes down
With a kind of November melancholy.
On either side we see the country wide
Where the trees still wear their leaves
And sheep their pastures graze on hillsides
Overlooking sweeping fields, some ploughed,
Some showing winter corn freshly sown.

Stansted airport draws near; dear daughter,
The joy of being with you still echoes in us
As we eat the fudge you gave us in Victoria.
Meanwhile you are making pumpkin soup-
At least that's what you said you'd do
On getting back to Crofton Road in Camberwell.