5 August 2012
I'm running through the seasons, Summer, Winter, Spring, Shortly flit through Autumn, Such change the seasons bring.
Autumn tastes of apples: Soft thud, they hit the ground, Leaves a russet-orange hue, They fall without a sound.
Skipping onto Winter, So cold, the ice is cruel, Icicles and frost-bite cuts, The hail and snow will duel.
Sprinting into Spring, Leave Winter far behind, Spring is fresh and crisp and light, And smells of orange rind.
And I run into Summer: My favourite of the bunch, Summer sun and humid air, French bread and Brie for lunch.
Another run, another year, Four seasons race on track, And if there was even one less, The race and year would lack.
Racing Seasons. • Opuss № I