I love summer but, as russet leaves pile up around my front door and the lane becomes strewn with autumn debris, I must reluctantly acknowledge that summer's lease has expired for another year.
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.
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