“In the Autumn on the ground, between the traffic and the ordinary sound, I am thinking signs and seasons while a north wind blows through” – Brooke Fraser
I’ve picked up my books
The air has turned crisp.
In the evening a mist lingers over the golf course.
The afternoon is indigo
The noon sun is warm.
In the night, Autumns whisperings swallow the sky.
Harvest. Gathering. Reaping.
I am thinking seeds and scattering and sowing for a new year’s crop.
“Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close blosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
The lake is still and glassy
Reflecting the tired sky.
The schedule is full of work and thoughts and travel.
It is warm and windy.
It is colourful and clear.
It is busy. It is moving. It is shredding.
It is old leaves off.
Waiting for the new to come.
It is gathering the old. It is storing up for winter. It is resting, trusting, waiting for the new blossoms to come.
“The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under October twilight the water mirrors a still sky,
Upon the brimming water among the stones are ninety-and-five swans.” William Butler Yeates
To the seasons swaying song.