The season’s going nowhere,
the TV temperature tracker
a scribble of zigzags.
Weather cycling from warm to cool
clothes stuck between shorts and sweaters
trees half leaf, half bare.
Even the wind is not directional
but circular and indecisive,
rain half-hearted, drained to mist.
Now sun drops into the sea
heavy with tarnished gold,
weary on its bed of clouds.
Not yet the deep silence of winter
but dimness of faded things,
echoes of what used to be.