by Sinclaire Gibson
and as everyone slowly migrates inside,
and people start to whisper about the first snow,
and as the green of the grass hides below our feet,
and the hiss of the radiator scares me when i first wake up,
and as the moon hovers above the thick clouds,
and the streetlights start to twinkle on and off,
and as the oranges and reds start to fall,
and my eyes grow heavy at seven o’clock,
i am reminded we are haunted by the dusk of the year
and soon october will be seeing us off with grace.
