Halfs

The fall comes late to London nowadays.
No more the frozen Thames, the whiteclad streets
All is a mist of brown and blues and grays
While reds and yellows tell of the retreats
Of summer, but remind that winter's far;
For we are in the middle, still half-changed,
Not sure of how or who we really are
But certain that we have been rearranged.
There is a prickle coming in the air
A promise something more will come, and yet
The fact that it is not already there
Is something we cannot with ease forget.
It feels the winter will not come at all
And we will live forever in this fall.