Autumn equinox is here,
And sending shivers
Through the air.
Beech and ash are turning now
And fields are furrowed by the plough.
Startled from its nest of grass,
A hare lopes away as walkers pass.
In early evening’s gold and mottled light
Of low rays warning of approaching night,
A woodland whiff of mulch and leaves
Pervades the lengthening shadows of the trees.