That last pretence of summer –
slanting sunlight, and the air
settling into velvet – has gone.
Street lamps stutter
pour their pools of steely light
and photoflash each passing face
before it fades in shadow.
We turn back the clocks
enjoying, for a moment, the conceit
that we can turn back time,
control that slippery, elusive hour
which we have lost
or maybe not yet lived.