I feel a coolness in the air.

Bright sun still greets the dawn,

birds will trill their greeting to the day,

 

and yet I sense a change of mood;

the restless vacillation of a verdict

not quite agreed, but scales begin to tip.

 

Blackberries cluster, purple knots

of succulence, awaiting harvest.

Conkers fall from laden chestnut trees.

 

Breezes flutter branches dappled

with morning, disturb leaves still green

that hint of darker colours soon to come.

 

Is it now summer’s time to sleep, to pass,

or does she simply catch her breath,

prepare a final surge before her shadow fades?

 

Or is autumn’s pawing at the ground

a not-so-subtle sign that summer’s foofaraw

must fade, and dignify it with effusive valediction.