Auburn colours blaze,

Auburn colours blaze,

And sing festive choral songs

Of praise,

In the crisp

Morning, autumn sun.

Red and gold shimmer

Brittle silver leaves glimmer

Crumbling to dust

Beneath the careful tread

Of comfortable shoes.

But in the heavy grey,

With the weight of the sky

Squeezing the life

Out of the day,

All manner of hues

Bleed into one

Sorry brown sludgy pulp.

An apology of a colour scheme.

Not one good thing

To be said about it,

Other than

It makes you scream

For the yawning flush of spring.

But even that shrill sound

Would be nullified

By the density of air.

The stillness a prelude

Of the storm to come,

As it likely will.

But as sure as eggs

Are eggs

It will wait until

The journey home.

The rain lashing

Fretful dirty streets,

Eager wipers,

Working overtime.

Short sighted drivers

Nose to tail,

Skidding,

Forty tons,

Splashing.

Nightmare journeys

In the glowering dark.

No time to ponder

The flaking bark

Of a burnished chestnut,

Or the spindle fingers

Of a gnarled old oak.

Just need to get indoors,

Run a bath,

And have a soak.