Season of mists and back to school,
Ruddy browns and falling leaves.
The onset of winter, oh so cruel,
As birds abandon sheltering eaves.
Sometimes you con us with an Indian Summer,
Mocking the end of the holiday season.
But shorter days are still a ******
To celebrate I see no reason.
You hang around on your mobile phone,
Looking like you’re really weary.
Those birds to Africa have all flown,
Leaving us feeling only dreary.
Where are those summery Beach Boys songs?
Forget them all some say.
Those lovely colours right all wrongs:
The festive season is on it’s way.
For this is the annual Twilight Zone,
The evening of the year.
A time when many a seed is sown
Ready for Spring to appear.
Paul Butters
© PB 5\10\2018.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
Season of mists and back to school,
Ruddy browns and falling leaves.
The onset of winter, oh so cruel,
As birds abandon sheltering eaves.
Sometimes you con us with an Indian Summer,
Mocking the end of the holiday season.
But shorter days are still a ******
To celebrate I see no reason.
You hang around on your mobile phone,
Looking like you’re really weary.
Those birds to Africa have all flown,
Leaving us feeling only dreary.
Where are those summery Beach Boys songs?
Forget them all some say.
Those lovely colours right all wrongs:
The festive season is on it’s way.
For this is the annual Twilight Zone,
The evening of the year.
A time when many a seed is sown
Ready for Spring to appear.
Paul Butters
© PB 5\10\2018.
Request permission to use this poem