The seasons turn, the world grows old,
The woodland turns from green to gold.
I hate suet. Rice is better.
I mustn’t forget to post that letter.
That’s all I remember of my first ever poem, called Autumn. It was called Autumn because Mr. Roberts, the English teacher, asked us to write a poem about autumn. I’d never thought of writing a poem before, but I knew you had to find words that rhyme and while I was at it, I unwittingly threw in a bit of post-modernist subversion. Mr. Roberts really liked it.