In poetry, autumn is approaching death.

The mists of receding memory

part briefly in the shortening days

to feed the fruits of wisdom

to admiring young.

The dark night of winter

is a short blight

before life springs forth

again in proud perfection.

Floral beauty and rich crops

have spread their radiance,

fed their progeny, sown their seeds.

Done their job, returned to earth

to ...

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Back in the mid seventies, I spent some time working with a company that specialised in organizing sales based around taking container loads of goods direct to the car parks of large factories so that staff could purchase goods at rather low prices for the day. One time we had a real struggle due to the temperature falling very low overnight. I wrote this while shivering on the van...

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