September is going all out to ease us in.

The clouded sky is a whiteboard for helpful diagrams,

the first cool air as welcome as your hand inside my jeans.

Autumn zips round with its orange highlighter

and you provide nifty shocks and marshmallows,

leaving pornographic Post-its that ask me to rendezvous,

please, for hot chocolate. I am the type of man

who likes unnecessary displays of manners,

who appreciates thank you cards, warning signs,

a forest of regretful notices for building works.

I admire rows of ginkgos that lose all their foliage

in one drop to form a Yellow Brick Road.

I am a desperate Lion today, stalking Scarecrow.

I chew biros, glimpse at my watch too often. I was so afraid

of being late to see you once, I arrived six days early.

Love is horrific like that. First it’s a rabbit, then a duck,

then it’s a ravenous, one-eyed sock puppet;

but the rest is yoghurt adverts. And you fasten my thoughts

with the most beautiful paperclips, even the filthy ones,

like the time I saw a grove of ripening chilli plants

become a rainbow of penis trees. Do you wish to continue,

says the voice of a self-service checkout. Yes, yes I do.

Between the shops, the sea snuggles under its blue leaves.

The clock tower waits patiently for Christmas,

a familiar figure below waggling his arms

to lure me over. Succeeding. Your skilful face punches

a giant hole in the day and I jump through it.