Sunday, February 3, 2008

Getting earlier every year

The smell of burnt fireworks wafts on the breeze,
As autumn’s cold hand starts to tighten.
A few hardy leaf-lets cling tight to the trees,
At five, the street lamps start to brighten.

But what’s this I see? Is the madness complete?
(The answer is surely “Yea, verily.”)
On November 1st in a house ‘cross the street,
A Christmas tree’s lights twinkle merrily.