The
wailing winter wind that blows a gale
Sweeps
like a brittle brush scouring the land,
Rendering
the autumn forests frail
And
anything else that comes at hand.
At
the helm is Jack Frost, fearless and brave,
Advancing
behind him a force of snow and hail;
Some
of the elderly will come nearer to their grave –
Soon
to be just a photograph, a memory, a tale.
Outside
the window there’s a tap,
Old
Jack is back.
England
groans at that familiar sound
And
falls down on her knees.
Like
a light which takes away the dark,
What
we knew before has now grown stark,
Good
on the eye but cold on the feet –
Autumn’s
goodbye as winter we meet.
Tap,
tap, tap –
Old
Jack is back.
©
Andrew Stevenson 12/03/2017
Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.