Is this a poem, or is it prose? It rhymes a bit, but also stutters, somewhat, as it goes. Just words together, that is all, above photos of leaves, and some flowers against a dark night wall. No flash, I hate harsh flash, just the street-lamp-light on a walk this late night, the evening when the clocks go back and the dark nights begin, and I, for one, say 'bring them in'; for I like the seasons, as one of the reasons, for walking out, then walking in. And I have realised I often find it easier to be cheerful, when some people expect things to be bad, easier to defiantly find happiness, when some expect me to be sad. I do like the spring, but somewhat fear the summer, for when sunshine shines, I sometimes, obstinately, feel glummer. I'm smiling now, indeed I am, so you smile too please, if smile you can.