You can always tell when autumn’s here,
And summer’s gone away.
The sunny weather disappears,
There, and then not one day.
There is no shortage of verse and rhyme,
About how leaves do fall,
After turning gold, or brown, or red:
Autumnal colours all.
Or how the leaves crinkle underfoot –
Soundtrack to the season.
But we always know when autumn’s here,
For a different reason.
A distinct bite to the air at night,
Or that first morning frost,
And the welcome return of a smell,
Familiar yet long lost.
The pleasant scent of a log burning:
Has someone lit the fire?
That sort of fragrance can capture you,
And all at once inspire.
It’s time to light the wood-burning stove,
And draw a chair up near.
The evidence is overwhelming,
That autumn is now here.