more autumn

pink button chrysanthemum

Autumn comes,
breathing grey mist through city streets;
he stamps in puddles
then laughs with sudden sunshine.


yellow daisy marigold

Last night the clocks changed in the UK, so we’re back on Greenwich Mean Time.

pink dahlia

Although summer is well and truly over – or at least British Summer Time is – it’s amazing how much colour there is still in the gardens. (All the photos in this post were taken this weekend.)

orange chrysanthemums

But autumn has always been a bit like that – nondescript grey one minute, dazzlingly bright the next; then all blustery with needly-sharp rain; then soft and mellow again.

blush pink dahlia

The lines that open this blog post are the opening lines of a very old poem – so old I don’t remember where and when I wrote it. It’s clearly a UK scene, though, and I suspect it dates from before I moved to Spain in the late Eighties.

pink chrysanthemum

Looking at the final lines, it may be a bit premature to post the whole thing as St Martin’s Day isn’t celebrated until November 11th.

white rose dotted with rain drops

Then again, Martinmas is also Old Hallowe’en and there were plenty of people out in the costumes this weekend, so maybe it’s topical enough.

orange dahlia 

Autumn comes,
breathing grey mist through city streets;
he stamps in puddles
then laughs with sudden sunshine.

Loki-like,
he snatches at the washing on the line
and grabs the flaming leaves from the staid trees
leaving them naked to the elements.

Jack Frost and he
are playmates, fellow artists, mischief-makers;
they seek out cracks in our defences, peep
through windows, leaving crystal finger-prints.

In kinder mood,
he spreads a royal carpet for our pleasure;
he daubs chrysanthemums in gardens
and decks the bushes with bright fruit.

At Martinmas
he clothes us in mellow sunshine one last time:
a cloak of summer memories
to keep us warm till spring.

 red and yellow spiky dahlia

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

2 thoughts on “more autumn”

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