A Season without Name

Took a wak with Em through Stanmer Park yesterday up to Ditchling Beacon. A hot day that became gradually cooler, clouds covering the sun, ghosts of rain that didn't turn into a full hauntng.
Some of the leaves on the trees were beginning to turn, a feverish yellow, but really, there was no definite sign of autumnas yet.
Cavernous woods, and trackways through fields, the placid yet somehow sinister stare of cattle, an ice lolly from the ice cream man in the car park, and at Stanmer Church a second hand bookstall which held nothing of any real interest. There was an anti-abortin book for sale there with the title 'Babies for Burning' next to 'It' by Stephen King.
The long meandering bus ride back to Brighton down Lewes Road, past Moulscoomb, glimpsing the road I used to walk to get to where I first lived here. Dusty estate memories, roads too wide and too many houses. Still in my twenties back then. A decade back, the length of the eighties or the seventies, but seems somehow shorter.
Evening came on surprisingly early, the only real sign of autumn. Nights drawing in like a tide.
Fell to sleep last night at 10:30pm, and woke up this morning before the alarm went off at 7am.
Summer is beginning to seem a long time ago now, but this doesn't feel like autumn either.
I wonder what season this could be.