Oh, garden of England…
Low-hung clouds a soft caress to tree-topped hills
brush over high, proud breasts of verdant boughs;
willow’s waves reminiscent of Pre-Raphaelite locks
swaying in the ever-more-violent breeze…
The seasonal prelude to winter brewing
to blow from land and mind all memory
of long-faded summer.
Moist kiss of drizzly air feeds leaves
turned golden, changing red to brown;
lays itself close to skin pale now, tan gone
and covered up in layers of wool.
How cool the mornings, and yet
how stunning. They wait – eager –
for frost’s first coming.