I love Autumn,
the season of harvest.
The season that highlights my town’s vintage beauty
and perhaps, the symbolic symmetry that this hamlet shines in the season that is darkest before the dawn; the season that celebrates loosing.
The season that is beautiful and bright, colourful and crumpled as it lets it all fall.
The season where the days raise out of the mist
and the mornings are hipstamatic.
Where the oaks, the elms, the birches and the poplars strip for the winter.
Where reds and yellows, tans and burgandys drift to the ground in soft breezes, circling mushrooms and toadstools and providing crunch to our walk.
The season where the fungi springs from the damp earth and the last of the olives ripen and I miss the fact that the pumpkin never got planted.
Where I sit in a lurid green dressing gown and fleecy boots nursing a warm coffee and visible breath and eyes that rests on the convuluting horizon above me. Hills encircling and clad in the staid and calm, khaki and suggestively ancient gums. The ones that don’t let you see a horizon but encourage you to find a crackling fire and hanker.
It’s harvest time,
It is where words are stolen from the pages of my journals to start their life as poems:
old pictures find their feet again
and we collect treasures for our corner.