Grey, looming sky so still.
No birds sing.
Leaves sit untouched, unfluttered, still; waiting for the autumn thrill.
No glowing colour yet, no crunch, no bite.
As yet no shivering chill.
Back stage; on hold,
No scenery yet, no music score, no clattering dance, no lights,
No fires, no muffs, no darkening nights.
A dull grey pause, a damp trudge home, a twilight time, a long slow dusk.
Drab leaves hang on as colours drain
Dour and dull in drizzling rain.
But every year the show goes on,
The grand finale takes the floor.
Impossibly, the dying leaves assert themselves and burst on stage
In glorious colours, bright and bold,
In ochre, yellow, red and gold.