Autumn in Sydney is incongruous, discreet
As trees shed their burden to the breeze,
People complain about the heat
While they rake up carpets of red and yellow leaves.
Children are still swimming at beaches,
The cresting waves looking far too cold,
But the warm sun shining on the water
Turns all to liquid gold.
Northern seasons are clear and precise,
Spring buds then dies in the Fall
There is Summer’s heat, and Winter’s ice,
But Sydney blends them all.
Here, hailstones in Spring force a retreat,
Winter suffers drought
-El Nino and La Nina can’t be beat,
We just have to wait them out.
And in Autumn,
While leaves tumble to their graves,
Sydneysiders frolic
Like seals in Pacific waves.
