Article,  Odds 'n' Ends

England’s Autumn, I Love.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

A poem of home.

In England, Autumn is a season to be loved, and I love.

It’s the season of squirrels.

It’s a time of trees and their boughs which creak with the weight of Summers passed.

It’s the time of leaves on the ground and rustling blankets to hide all passages which crunch with a mysterious sound.

It’s the time of invisible creatures and paw-steps which echo, a presence, betrayed at last.

It’s the time which hails the darkness to come and the season which passes as the cold of Winter comes around.

By Alex

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