Autumn in his coat of old, stitched leaves
came knocking at my door,
rustling fingers tapping at my window-pane;
oh, but why should I let you in,
I’m warm and comfy in my chair,
a little bit of summer still warm
and dancing in my grate,
a glass of brandy in my hand
and ginger biscuits on a plate…
Go away, Autumn,
you have nothing that I want;
I’ve pots and pans (and blueberry jam),
mittens for my hands at night
and well-worn slippers for my feet…
why, my little life is almost complete!
No use knocking on my door,
please try further down the street.
“Let me come inside” pleads Autumn
“I have gold I want to share
Covering the trees and hillsides
Just before they all turn bare.
I won’t be as hot as summer
Nor as fickle as the spring,
I don’t have the bite of winter
That can freeze ‘most anything.
You can still enjoy your brandy
Keep your feet and fingers warm,
Please allow me in dear poet
I won’t do you any harm.
Look outside and see my beauty
Spread as far as eye can see,
Surely you can bid me enter.
Show some hospitality.”
“Go away, Autumn,
you make my old bones ache
and mortify my mind with intimations of mortality.
Winter at least is chill and chaste
but your protestations of beauty offend me
– all I see is sad decay
and the perishing of things held dear.
The song you sing is sad and drear,
you reduce the trees to skeletons
and drive a sober man to beer
simply to keep the wind at bay.
October is full of gales and lamentation,
November harbours ancient ghosts…
go away from my door
and leave me to my tea and toast!
“Poet have your eyes been blinded
That you can no longer see
Has your heart become embittered
That you speak such treachery?
I’m the kindest of the seasons,
Loveliest too I might add
And to hear you say such harsh words
Makes me rightfully quite mad.
I am not the cause of decay,
Change is something we go through
I resent the implication
I bring thoughts of death to you.
Keep your door closed silly poet
I’m not going anywhere
But I will not take the blame for
Your desire to drink beer!”