Warming

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.