The Absent Autumn

In July, summer sun loved skin,
Older now, and travelled.
The South of France had left tan lines as
We celebrated our freedom for the last time,
With the sweetness of cut grass,
Beer in the sunshine was enough for me forever.

But, as defiantly as the last,
The trees hinted, solemnly,
That September was over,
And my twenty-first autumn was close at hand.
The crunching of feet through fallen foliage
Ominous, as this is the year I would leave.

The private avenues of my canopy-covered town,
Now open to the low wintry sun,
Bestow upon me a warmth,
To which I am gladly and eternally betrothed,
But this year, the world outside beckons,
And not out of choice, I am gone.

In early December, I sit,
At my desk in my small room and reflect,
Knowing that all the sights and smells of home
In the autumn, are passing,
And well before my return,
The last bird will have flown.