The Seasons

Winter’s cloak is thick and heavy, lined
with fur and folds like a duvet.

Winter is an old man, bent
in two, an aching back and creaking knees,

a white beard laced with ice
skin that wrinkles around his eyes.

Spring’s cloak is lighter, the material
skipping and flowing it drips over the ground

like a gentle stream, she slips
and jumps, light on the ground, fingers

soft and delicate. Her hair is silver
and her laugh gentle and kind.

Summer is a slippery being, her cloak
nearly invisible as she slips

it on, it reflects the light
shimmering as it glides over the ground.

She is hard to catch and impossible
to see, she does not hang around long,

and so autumn is glad to pull his cloak
back on and walk out into the world

a smile on his face. His cloak
is not heavy but it is warm,

and secure on his shoulders
as he strides out into the world.

And So Summer

and so summer has come and gone, and it feels like we barely
dipped our toes in before it is snatched away again as evenings

darken, a chill in the air and all the things we meant to
do, the adventures, the late evenings, the early mornings,
are all gone before we can say –

blackberries appear on hedgerows, plenty
Of crumble and back to school blues
new pencil case and pens, sharpened leads

as barefoot days, sea dips, fields of hay bales, neat in rows
freshly mown grass, sunshine laughter, reading lying on the grass
in dapple sunlight


into memories

Autumn Morning in London

The sky is pale baby blue.
Everything still seems to be sleeping
as the sun dances on the yellow
and orange and green leaves.
A lonely train rumbles by out of sight
and a plane ducks down, flying low,
ready to land, somewhere nearby.
You are asleep somewhere under the same sky
while I sit here, nursing a coffee
and gazing out at the familiar and yet
alien landscape that is not mine
and another world away from you
and me, another someone I could
have been.


I pine for summer
but now I’m craving
the familiarity of autumn books
that seem to shine orange and red
and brown and smell like warm drinks
and plenty of layers;
stories that glow warmth
and make me feel at one again.


Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.


Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.


holds promises we cannot see

the dream of new beginnings

long evenings and warm days

stretching out in front of us

full of hope, expectations

and long empty days

ready for potential

unwritten canvases ready

to be filled.


But then it starts to run away

faster than we can

keep up with it

and too soon, we’re mourning

the dying days and the loss

of all that time

which once stretched