It's my favourite time of year,
The time I was born.
All of a sudden, it seems,
The leaves that don the mature Silver Birch on our road have turned brown,
And the wind is up to bring them to ground.

Afternoon nips at my fingers, rain drives hard against my face.
Muddy footprints at the front door, dripping jackets hang in the hall.
Someone's home.
Kettle on, dry clothes, blazing fire in the hearth,
And respite from the day.

Extra layers are pulled from wardrobes the length and breadth of the country,
As Summer takes a back seat.
It’s Autumn, thank god.
And all that was bright and shiny is dulled,
And things that were made come to nought.