Through autumn

September morning frost, the air sharpset,

The chill of winter’s glancing breath foretells

Of snow and ice, and days when cold indwells,

And summer’s smiling warmth we soon forget.

The swirl of woodsmoke curving through the air,

It’s tang a counterpoint to autumn’s fruits;

The first leaves turn, the others follow suit,

And summer’s warmth is gone in firework flare.

October brings the season of decay,

The harvest gathered safely in the barn;

The stock inbye to save from winter’s harm,

Less summer warmth with each declining day.

And yet, as we approach the turning year

The summer’s warmth reflects in Christmas cheer.

© C P Brooks 26/09/07