Autumn

Autumn is by far my favourite season. I often wonder how people can choose summer over it. It's simply glorious; the burnt golds, brick reds and street lamp amber that infiltrates the entire landscape, littering the ground with an incandescent glow that by no means any artificial light could create. As the trees stand tall grasping to their remaining accessories, fireflies drift among them to look like fairy lights wound tightly around their flaking skin. The bark wanes as its twisted roots render wallowing cries under the weight of its disposition. Your eyes will be alight with the volcanic beauty of the burning colours that shroud the scene. Filled with wonder. Until a numbness shall fall to strip them bear of their dignity, so that only their arms remain to hang loose by their sides and sleep, restless. Yet, the season is not over but far from beginning and you shall be awakened from your deep slumber, when the crisp remnants crunch beneath ones feet; their fiery textures illuminating the pathway for you to follow. It's the time of year when England is finally sampled a slice of summer weather, having been deprived for so long you can almost hear the united sigh of relief. au naturelle - the sun drenches the country whilst the rain holds scarce; it's the perfect medium between Summer (too hot) and Winter (too cold). Even that smokey smell with a hint of fermenting fruit that begins to surface around this time becomes a treat to inhale. I think the source of all my lust for the season however, springs from that feeling the autumn breeze stirs. It is one I find extremely difficult to elucidate, but I can tell you it is such a fabulous feeling. No doubt, the words of mister F.Scott Fitzgerald can divulge it further:

"Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall"

And to be able to simply swipe the slate clean is such an appealing preposition, don't you think?

Alas, to bring forward a hasty conclusion, the autumnal hues are what has brought upon this delightfully soulful rendition of a blog post. & I do apologize for the long-winded approach in delivering such a, for lack of a better phrase "shitty cliché", as I join the 'autumn writing clan' if such a thing exists. 

But, in finding it most difficult to detach myself from my ever growing fondness for the season, I shall continue for a little while longer where autumn is concerned. et voila, as I take the plunge avidly into the deep dark depths of my awaiting soul, I can dwell just for long enough to extract a poem from the chasms that delve within me: named, ever so aptly, "Autumn". Before you dive in however, ponder over this comic awhile.  

Hush now, ma Cherie ...  

This picture depicts exactly what I have droned on about
for the most part of this post. I can only hope that
this was the scene you had already depicted inside
 your head since I began to type; exquisite splendor
embedded in a painting with your mind as the artist 

Autumn                                                                

I love autumn                                                                  

It's my favourite time of the year

You can get things done that

Other people don't want you to do

It's not too cold like winter

It's not too hot like summer

It's not spring

I hate spring. I always have.

You can hang from a tree

surrounded by beauty

And it doesn't matter when 

because the evening is the morning

the morning is the evening

in autumn, things are always the same. 

This is what I decided to do

sparks of burnt red, gold and amber

ignite and swirl around me

they dance and encircle me

It must have been a lovely sight 

That October there was snow

But how would I know?

I never had to face spring again.

I hated spring, I always had.