The world is a season changeling
It matures fast to a ripe autumn
In walls of yellowing leaves now...
Hanging tremulously in the wind
Or in yellowing sheets underfoot,
That crackle with the foots tread
Strewn deep on now diminishing
Grass growth that stills and slows
I kick their desiccated bodies
To the northern wind of change
Feel briefly that I’m now 10 again
Instead of my normal age of twelve
Knowing beyond doubt I do love autumn
But not its cool echoing shades pointing
Towards the coming cold of winter