Author of Autumn sulked
in a corner. Again he had raced
into third place, won bronze,
and so he hid in shadow
camouflaged by leaves,
concealed by longer hair and hanging briars.
He had finally got the idea
- he was not a bonny summer
or glitter of winter.
‘Why me!?’ he shouted into corners,
lugged branches off trees in a strop,
battered gulls into silence.
Later, he filled valleys with misty breath
before an amber sun lifted
him high to air
and with much more room to slow
he perceived how, in limited light,
light is a priceless gift.
After rage he waves and sings,
rattles a hedgerow with magical voice
‘Howl often! Hush!’