I’ve not really done much in the last twenty-four hours apart from watch a bit of Angel and not be nearly productive enough. I think it’s the turn in the weather.
He called me the other night: back in town again. He gets me every time; eyes as blue as a late September sky, auburn hair just starting to frost at the edges and stubble sharp as a conker case. How can I say no?
We walk together through the park and he showers me with gifts of rubies and gold. With every breath he turns up the charm. I bathe in his warm sunlight, but I am not completely taken in. I remember how quickly the clouds roll in and the darkness can fall.
Last time he was there one day and gone the next. I thought he had settled. I thought, foolishly, that he would stay just a bit longer. One morning, I rolled over and reached out for him but there was only the morning chill to greet me. I sank into a depression that lasted until the following March.
Here he is again. Like a child, I reach up to him, anxious to cling to his shirt tails and keep him near me. Under the shimmering downpour of the storm he captivates me with flashes of brilliance and that deep burr that sends a shiver down my spine. Every time he calls I answer; staring dreamily through the window at the wind ruffling the leaves on the trees. The branches wave to me and the leaves rustle in warning. As if on cue a cold wind blows and the leaves that were lustrous and golden, fall, dull brown, to the muddy grass below.
Each time he appears I give him my heart and I know, sure as the sky darkens by five in December, that the next time will be the same.
I can already feel him slipping away. They say winter this year will be a harsh one and with each crisp dawn I can only agree.
Autumn has barely arrived but he is already preparing to leave.
Autumn is my favourite season and always has been. It’s wild and colourful and unpredictable. Walks in wellies in the woods; apples and spices and digging out the jumpers; leaves and rain and wind and rushes of everything…
Mist in the morning, raw and nippy
Leaves on the pavement, wet and slippy
Sun on fire behind the trees
Muddy boots, muddy knees
Shop windows lighted early
Soaking grass, dewy, pearly
Red, lemon, orange and brown
Silently, softly, the leaves float down
I had this poem in the Out and About book with gorgeous illustrations. That’s autumn. That’s the thrill of it. Mist and murk and secrecy. Autumn is a very furtive season, I’ve always found. Until Friday, kids, stay cosy.