Poem By Ernestine Northover
Summer is sadly on the wane,
As, cool autumn creeps on stage.
The nights begin to impart a chill,
And strong winds go on the rampage.
Darkness sneaks in on us early,
As our evenings invite twilight,
Then we wake up to a greyish dawn,
Following a long and obscure night.
The dying season, is slowly turning,
The leaves to bright copper tones,
Each swooping down, to cover,
The heavily, moss clad, flagstones.
Thus preparing us all for winter,
Putting the whole earth to sleep,
Until our next spring awakens,
And new shoots begin to peep.
These four seasons give us pleasure,
In their own individual way,
The joy of each one's beginning,
The sad ending of each one's display.