Summer's warm glow is dying
Summer’s warm glow is dying,
chill autumn grey reclining low
up there, in the polluted vapour,
as gloom of winter descends again.
Traffic drags itself like a wounded animal
into town, frowns upon work-weary faces,
a collective sigh from exhausts, while
figures slope their shoulders down pavements.
Winter’s grip begins to take hold,
cold rain starts to fall, drowning
holiday laughter, trees attempt
to shake off damp weighing them down.