If you were to say that May was the perfect month,
then you have forgotten September.
For just as you recall pale primroses in hedgerows,
the conkers drop like burnished jewels.
And as you dream of an abundance of blossom,
lush fruit spills from the trees.
Then longing for the drift of a bluebell glade,
the maple flames and sheds a crimson leaf.
So, when reflecting on the sharp clean air of spring,
breathe in the earthy breezes of autumn,
and imagining drifts of creamy hawthorn,
sense the tawny fronds of bracken, turning......
because just as you were sure that May
was the perfect month,along comes September.
© Sue Burley