Whatever Happened To Apollo?

I see the sun struggling to rise out of the morning mist and I get this twee image of some old fogey fighting red-faced to free himself from the entanglement of bed sheets.

That old geezer is me, of course. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, sometimes - of the body I am forced to walk around in - and am reminded of being an almost teenager, of forgetting myself and holding my father's hand in public.

Whatever happened to Apollo? There's a fatuous question for you. He traded in his golden chariot for a family saloon.

Autumn is a state of mind. It does not lend itself to metric verse or perfect rhyme. It is afflicted by the faltering of middle age.

The leaves that blazed are raked into a heap and smoulder in back yards, while the sun barely makes it over the fence.