The chill wind reminds us all
That Summer is all but over
England is now in leaf fall
From Berwick on Tweed to Dover
The crimson sunsets flee
The strident times have gone
We reach the end of the spree
We so depended upon
The rose petals scattered and down
Our coats are buttoned or zipped
The thistle has donned his crown
Our hopes lie torn and ripped
The air rushes at the gate
It's gusts rattles and swirls
Summer's treasures too late
To save us from it's hurls
The sun-laden blossom and scent
Like stragglers leaving a dance
Their magic broken and spent
Their charms no longer entrance
Summers pages a dusty tome
Its bindings tired and care-worn
We reluctantly turn for home
For now the Autumn is born
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem