Autumn.

When cuckoo's calls no longer heard,

when barn owls hoot their solemn words,

when melancholy curlews send their call across the moor,

then that's the time you know my friend,

that autumn's here for sure.

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When swallows all head south in flocks,

when moonlight silhouettes a fox,

when gold and bronze leaves spiral down

to fall in layers on the ground,

then that's the time you know, my friend,

that autumn time is here again.

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When hawthorn berries bright red show

in hedgerows where the dog rose grows;

when bracken turns from green to brown,

when soft mists creep across the ground,

when skies turn grey that once were blue,

then autumn's come to call on you.

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Some greet it like a sullen foe

with looks of enmity and woe,

but some, like I, we welcome it,

enjoy its damp and clammy grip.

We love its colours and it's sights,

its sparkling stars and cooler nights.

For me, when summer's at an end,

I treat the autumn like a friend.