After Summer,

Autumn is always brushed

Under the carpet

Like a half-baked afterthought

Before the winter arrives

With its blanket

Of snow rolled blues.

 

At the beginning of Autumn

There is a hesitation

In the breeze

Before the clouds

Darken the sky

And poison us slowly

With mustard gas.

 

There is a sadness

In the half cut sun

Flickering once more

Before the clouds

Carry the sun away

Like a funeral director

As an ornament

Of a mystery

Dying with a silent scream,

 

Before setting their

Compass’s north

Never to be seen again.