The season’s turning now. Late summer’s long-held breath
is finally exhaled. Now autumn’s alchemy
has seeped its way inside the trees to turn their leaves
to copper, bronze and gold. The sky’s no longer blue;
its cobalt wash is painted out with layers of grey.
The wind blows cooler, damper, stronger from the sea.
The river’s high and brown, and summer’s dusty paths
have turned to muddy tracks. The scent of wood smoke drifts
inside from down the street. We stack logs on the porch.
I find it strange to think that half a world away
the season’s turning too; that where I once called home
the spring is breezing in, and kissing grey to green.
(C) Helen Lewis, 2006