April 18th
To Autumn (with apologies to Mr. Keats)
season of what's missed
and mellow lockdowns
close bosom friend
of no-one
unless you wanna
end up in gaol
where we already are
kinda sorta jug
wouldn't mind a hug
but not with a
maturing chum like you
conspiring to upload our lungs
with droplets
of a ripe old age
sometime
creeping out abroad
may find you
in the café latte queue
just take away
mind you
no time for chat
no this and that
and they may quiz
what are you doing out of doors
old woman
get home
do your chores
and do not poke your grizzled head
out of your portal
until the songs of spring
are heard
and things go back to normal
but not really
try to
wax cheery.