The Cranky Wind

In portents of winter these days
it's an ill wind that blows, at
the very least, an ill-tempered wind
in its seasonal practise run toward
winter. Those icy gusts tear
red-and-gold foliage from
trees unable to host them any
longer, and those same bursts
of wretched icy wind send
probing fingers of blasted chill 
into our faces, through our
garments, scorning the very
notion of a pleasant woodland
stroll in a familiar environment
grown suddenly colourful, it's
true, but exceedingly hostile.