1. This is the season of forest splendour and trees wear their finest robes,
They burst forth into all their richest and warmest colours of the year,
And cast glory on landscapes that is unrivalled across an autumn land,
Wind blows many tinted leaves along gently, it looks like desert sand.
To tread on their rustling masses in still glades, the season’s language,
A season to still walk among wood ways to enjoy tranquil splendour,
Of green fields, feeling freshness of clear clean air on autumnal days,
Thankful for all the good and beauty while walking pretty pathways.
The autumn winds up its accounts of harvests and outside pleasures,
The last swallows pack their bags and fly off to places far, far away,
A hooded crow comes to share winter and a woodcock comes along,
They build their nests in warm places to the sound of a robin’s song.
A few last little butterflies still hover over flowers in sweet meadows,
Mostly small white ones catching on a breath of air like tiny little kites
Some have begun to feel the cooler air and they settle on a warm wall,
Basking in the glow of a noon sun, they have no cares, no cares at all.
