In autumn days when grass is jade and lush,
the shade of trees reigns crimson hourly leaves,
belies the later white in colours’ blush,
uncertain of the life which frost bereaves.
Sufficient for the spirit yet to thrive,
unfettered from the claims of summer’s heat;
gives time to dwell on memories alive,
which saunter where the rump-fed squirrels meet.
They gather chestnuts on the mellowed ground
and I believe in harvest’s cider quench,
a warming pulse that only there is found,
except within a red cheeked fullsome wench.
Though seasons pass with every measured glide
and winter comes to chill, here I reside.
