The Turning Time

The lavender is no longer in bloom

And the buddleia’s flowers are dry and gray

The trees are rich in orange and red

But brown is starting to have its way

It is that turning time of year

When chill nights follow shorter days

The neighbours ghosts and witches hang

From their garden gateways

And await the coming of the hoards

Wanting trick-or-treat to play


Padre

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