When The Birds Flew South Poem by Howard Pipe

Windswept clouds turned slate grey
edge the blue skies of morning.
The air feels fresh
as if the swan song of Summer is over;
its last warm breath carried away
when the birds flew south.

Autumn, as capricious as ever,
will draw us in
until we can hold on
to the warm days no longer.
It will shower us with its affections
and tempt us with its fruit.

Its rain and high winds
will challenge calm days of frost
and deep woodland hues.
When shafts of sunlight angle low
across the bare trees,
the earth will be ready.