Sad season

The apples once so high in the tree they couldn't be picked, are now half hidden and rotting in the wet grass. The wind so long absent has returned to bang the wooden gate. I will fix that tomorrow And with less light every day I must find time to Take down the stripped wig wams of former runner beans. Hibernate the summer chairs and Bar-b-que with their friend the lawnmower. And unblock the gutters and drains as the nasty Sycamores shed there rusty load. Where is my fleece Autumn is here.