Summer's warm glow is dying

Summer’s warm glow is dying, 

chill autumn grey reclining low

up there, in the polluted vapour,

as gloom of winter descends again.

Traffic drags itself like a wounded animal

into town, frowns upon work-weary faces,

a collective sigh from exhausts, while 

figures slope their shoulders down pavements.

Winter’s grip begins to take hold,

cold rain starts to fall, drowning 

holiday laughter, trees attempt 

to shake off damp weighing them down.