Here is the third poem from the ‘Four Season Quartet’.

 Looking For Autumn

 Here was Autumn.
I found it among the lovely oaks on the Green,
which trickled copper leaves upon me, crisp tokens from the Fall.
As I walked amongst them, they fragmented on impact, or lay moist and raw.
Those already rotting were crushed underfoot.
By my foot, by many feet, becoming pulp.
Keep your balance!
Beware slippy slime. Use the footpath.
Careful. Or you become fallen too.
Leaves look so dejected spreadeagled on the ground.
Unwanted. Gutter blockers, with drains overflowing.
How sad are the piles of leaves that once flew,
raining down from the great oaks like confetti.

My walk took me by an old lady, whose gaze was distant before it fixed upon me.
"Autumn," she said quietly, under her breath, in secret.
"How old are your dogs ?" she asked, facing me full on.
“Seven times eight and fifteen times seven.”
“Autumn and winter," she said knowingly, then “are they related?"
“Yes and no, no and of course. They are pedigree.”
She frowned and a breeze rustled through our silence.
But we are English.
I watched a spider scuttle across my shuffling feet
until a bus came, went and the old lady gone.
I felt cheated. Why hadn’t she said “Nevermore",
or "The Horror”. Something profound.
I was looking for Autumn, but had stumbled across winter instead.
Quick, find it soon, keep the chill at bay.

Look, here is Autumn.
See it threaded through a lawn of spider webbing,
criss-crossing, or parallel lined.
A silken sheet, shimmering in the low, long shadowed, close of year light.
Spiders! Hear them rustle, a million black hairy legs.
Spider. Pluck those legs off, one by one.
“You cruel child. Don’t crush them, either.
Keep to the footpath.”

Someone's been gambolling in the leafy grass.
And a wet nose has been probing.
Find that ball! Quick, bring it here.
The year’s begun imploding.

How easy it was as a child,
to plough a deep furrow through the wind-blown drifts.
Leaves spurted out from under my booted feet,
frothing up, spraying down.
All around me, golden.
Cascading, enveloping.
"Wheeeeeeee!"

Now, I snatch glances from side to side, furtively checking if invisible I could be.
Is it safe to be a child again, risking sniggers or finger-pointing?
Yes. I am going to be a batty old woman and kick the leaves around,
rejuvenated in the warming sunshine.
I won’t keep to the footpath.
I will put the boot in and bash them up,
high into the air.
Look. How they fly again.
Those leaves.
This Autumn.
It was here all the time.