Autumn

There's always a moment when Autumn announces herself. Her voice isn't as full as Summer, and certainly not as bold as Winter, but she's the most confident of seasons. The temperature in London is due to reach a balmy 20 degrees Celsius today, but don't be mistaken, those 20 degrees belong to acorns, golden leaves, sweaters and the clearing of the light.

These days poetry has been falling out of me even faster than my hair (stress related), even faster than the pounds I'm losing (a joyous, lean sparsity). So last week I took my little vessel to the South Bank Centre where I finally got round to joining The Poetry Library. Really, it couldn't be in a better location; that concrete, modernist perch on the Thames opens me up just like a conker shell. On the syllabus this term: Marianne Boruch and Brittle Star and the confidence to begin submitting some of my work. The academia of Autumn.

And there's nostalgia, too. Doesn't Autumn, with her bonfires and Harvest Festivals, make us look backwards, just for a moment? So go on, slip your hands into mittens, draw your loved ones close and remember. I certainly am.