Autumn has settled in, bringing with her cooler nights and sharp-toothed mornings; the slow metamorphosis of the trees, whose energetic summer dresses have begun fading almost imperceptibly to yellow and gold. Roses drip with ruby-red hips. Brambles are heavy with glossy fruit & the sloes are begging to be steeped in bottles of gin in dark kitchen cupboards.
In the evenings, night’s blanket draws close around the world’s shoulders. Windows shine in the darkness like stars, illuminating other people’s distant worlds. Wood smoke sprouts from the chimneys of canal boats, translucent vines climbing invisible fences. The haunting cry of northern geese echoes across the water as they leave.
Autumn is marked by the sense of small endings; the slow march of inexorable departures. Across the road, there is a birch, its trunk wrapped in ivy. Each day, I watch as it shivers in the wind, more and more naked with each passing week.
In a darkening car park, the slate sky looms. But in its bleakness there is beauty. The velvety darkness, the surge of the storm, the pounding of rain and the wild of the wind.
And in the heart of the seed, a whispered promise of sun.