September, those first Autumn mornings arrive,
The ones that bring to mind bonfires,
And make us want to shop for coats.
Things are darker, somehow
Even though the sun still shines,
The yellow is muted
And our skin remembers goosebumps.

October is inescapable.
Implacable. Winter is coming.
Mornings are uncomfortable;
Sly frosts make us slip.
For supper; soup or sausages,
Children wait for Halloween
Eager for costumes, and candy.

November is noisy
Fire, bangs, and squeals.
The promise of Christmas;
Puddings are made, and stored
We snuggle into scarves
And hurry everywhere, seeking warmth and light.

December is all colours and music and closing the year,
Excess is expected.
It’s hard, for some who need to escape,
There is no refuge from the festive,
It is both dark, and bright,
A month to hide, or emerge.

January is white-blue
And feels like being underwater.
There’s a melancholy,
Dreamlike feel.
The year is born
And shell-shocked, waiting to begin.