First Sense of the Season

Misty mornings
of August days.

Curled leaves lie in the gutter
With fallen conkers, shells split
Bunches of elderberries, squashed
a cushed, fermented smell that
lingers in the still, fresh, air.

A day of muted greens,
and soft shadows.
A day disguised of wher it will go after
from the shroud of mist
on the still morning of Autumn.

Written on the X5 Bicester to Oxford bus, 22 August 2017, 7.22am.