It's an oldie, but appropriate for the time of year...

Why Do Poets Like Autumn?

Autumn is rain.
Pitiless, bucketing, funeral rain
that makes gutters into rivers
and umbrellas into shreds.
Steaming, fetid rain
tasting of mould and death.

Autumn is roadkill.
Rotting little pools of blood and fur,
once hedgehogs, pheasants, rabbits;
Concertinaed bonnets of Audis
askew across t...

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