Our absence of woodland makes this an unspectacular season and a fitting prelude to the long grey winter that will shortly come creeping round the corner like an old bedraggled cat.
Time for Jane and I, warm-weather creatures that we are, to gather pullovers about us, turn on the central heating, burrow into a warm blanket of books and hibernate till spring.
Here’s a short poem to match the season.
END OF THE AFFAIR
The heating gets switched on;
sandals build nests in the boot-box;
the old straw hat sleeps, purring,
on the shelf where, overnight,
hats become cats;
jumpers sidle out
like pale young vampires in early dark.
The game’s up.
Summer’s finally cleared off somewhere else
as you always knew it would:
a false friend,
a good lover gone bad.