So, we’ve passed the equinox, the days are getting short again. The horse chestnut trees behind our garden are already starting to turn brown; the evenings are becoming colder. I guess it’s autumn, whichever way you look at it.
Some people say that autumn is their favourite season. It’s not mine. I can’t deny that woods can be beautiful when the trees take on many different shades of colour. But for me, the glorious entrance of autumn is a time of false promise. Those leaves will soon fall (and have to be tediously gathered up, if you have trees overhanging your garden), leaving behind only skeletal branches, then there are the dark evenings and miserable weather you get as the real autumn bites, with months of cold and rain to go before things start to get better again. Anyway, here’s a little poem I wrote about it a while back.
He strides up in his swanky gear,
spraying confetti everywhere
and one more time we’re taken in
by his sharp suit and his toothy grin,
his flashy coat of gold and red:
give me those summer greens instead.
Do not forget the gifts he brings:
the fog, the driving rain, the wind
that soon enough will strip him bare,
this faithless fag-end of the year.