By elsie katz
The clocks turn back, soon dusk will start at four
And guttered pumpkins bulk the wheelie bins.
Geese fly from
And summer clothes are packed away once more.
Leaves swither, rain pounds roofs, flowers die away
And dismal poppies memorial pains display,
And flouncy sugary Christmas fails to raise
My waterlogged spirits - for well I know that days
Of squall, fog, drizzle, cold and sheeting rain
Will beat me down again, again, again
Till Easter at least, yet fireworks rip the sky,
Predictable winter woes may well prove false.
We can make warmth from friendship and from fire
From curry and soup -
And now November's waltz
Of frost I dance. Your flaws I must forgive.
You are my birthday month. Inside you I shall live.