The seasons’ course seems strange to me,
more strange than I remember.
Wild flowers bloom unseasonably:
primroses in November.
The young pretend to blame us all.
Well, youth’s a great dissembler:
May was forever, I recall,
and there was no November.
These days I’ll take what Nature sends
to hoard for dour December:
a glow of warmth as autumn ends;
primroses in November.
David Gwilym Anthony, 2012