I don't know what it was that I could feel.
The damp creeping in waves, pouring over the windowsill,
an invisible cascade, the moisture weaving through the leaves,
dappling every laced cut-leaf tooth, roots swelling up,
mycorrhiza pumping, plumbing, roots bloating.
Summer had burnt so long and so hot, both ends of its candle
dribbled into the hedgerow, burning the leaves.
Autumnal fire flames whisper and tendrils finger,
the green giving a last gasp before browns and reds claim the kingdom.
Summer's reign slipped and Autumn, in her majesty,
waved her misty magic, ripening the fruit, mellowing Summer's furnace,
waving the swifts and swallows on their way,
preparing her bedrobes and chamber for her seasonal joys.