Autumn

The green of summer slowly turns to brown,

And morning wakes to cold and frost rimm’d leaves;

The birds that gathered now are southward flown

And autumn’s rain for summer’s showers grieves.

The trees sway to and fro in autumn’s gales,

And dying leaves are rain-dashed to the ground;

Now deep blue summer skies to pastels pale,

Such treasure, shining conkers, can be found.

In autumn comes the grieving of the year,

A mourning time for summer’s pleasures past;

But even midst the saddest rain-dropped tear

Shine mem’ries of the summer sun now past.

But come, let us be charmed by autumn’s hue

For in it lies a promise to renew.

© C P Brooks 29/09/07