Wednesday, 16 September 2015
My Ode to (this) Autumn
Season of clouds and welly-bootfulness,
Close bosom friend of the torrential rain.
Hardly a hint of summer sunfulness,
And bloody winter's on its way again.
I wouldn't mind if I were sporting tanfulness,
And felt the need for hurricanes and such,
But as it is, my skin is pale with sunlessness,
And in the mirror, I don't like it much.
Soon there'll be mud and snow and freezefulness,
The prospect fills my pallid soul with dread.
But there are always books and wine and cheesefulness -
I'll spend the next six months, with them. In bed.
(Sorry. Keats. But your autumns were obviously nicer than ours.)