Autumn arrives at last, unseasonably late.

Frustrated at being forced to wait,

she makes her displeasure known

in a sudden, howling rainstorm that threatens more

than the dying leaves that are her due.

 

But she finds herself part-thwarted in her mission.

Others have shown their anger before:

the best plum tree felled by the surprise late snow of April;

the elderberries parched by a freak June heatwave.

 

Autumn instead hurls her vengeance at a neglected garden shed,

exacting punishment on the manmade,

perhaps betraying that she, like me, is afraid -

 

Who knows?

Next time she passes this way there may be nothing left

to be cleansed by her tears

reincarnated in her gusting breath

As all that was green

turns irrevocably to brown

to grey

to hopelessness

to death