Poor autumn limped
into the Hills this year,
without its usual notes
of oboe gold.

I guess the summer dry
proved just too much
for frizzled leaves
too hot and tired to rust.

A sad and sorry April,
till this week
when hazy smoke hung
silken ‘cross the sky

And ornamental vine
donned scarlet coat
and kookaburra
laughed upon the fence.

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-old-autumn/