OWED TO AUTUMN
The sunlight is soft with hospitable mystery;
In August it scorched us, expected and bland.
The pavements are crunchy with Natural History,
Where trees are dismissing their leaves out of hand.
It’s scruffy and vague, this shaggy brown season
Each morning arrives with a mist that depletes
All edges and borders – it was for good reason
That autumn inspired some reasonable Keats.
White winter is death, and all of us harbour
Suspicions of picture-book summers and springs,
A frisson of something amiss in the arbour
Is what this benevolent avalanche brings.
So wrap up in autumn, and heap praise upon it,
Season of almost compulsory sonnet.