No Set Dates Poem by John Carter Brown

There are no set dates for the summer
Or for autumn, or winter, or spring,
We know they've arrived as we feel them,
It's part of the joy of the thing.

The turn of the seasons o'erlap, and
The climate is slave to no clock,
As spring simply hands over power
To summer, dressed in her best frock;

Who paints, for a time, pretty pictures
'Fore the sap begins running back down,
And chlorophylled leaves look to autumn,
Where misty rich colours abound.

Then a shedding commences in earnest
When the nod has been tipped to begin,
With the almanac casually sidelined
Then lazily dropped in the bin.

Overnight the cold falls, quick as secret
And breathes it's white blast with a will,
Freezing the days as it pleases
And icing the nights with it's chill.

And nothing but nothing can staunch now
The whip of the winter - no clock,
The calender-box memorandum
And red-letter day it will mock.

But 'fore very long mother nature
Has sung the best song she can sing,
While there are no set dates for the summer
Or for autumn, or winter, or spring.