The nights are drawing in. Darkness is gaining ground, slinking belly-down ever around the edges of the day, gnawing a little more precious light away with each blood orange sunset. The air is suddenly crisp and smells of damp earth, decay, and the imminent death of the year. Outside, conkers and pine cones are two a penny underfoot, and have crept indoors too, adorning hearths and mantels like little treasure-piece time-machines. Temperatures are sinking; step out in the morning and your breath heralds your entrance to the world in a rush of dragon smoke, and the coming bite of first frost threatens any still straggling berries. Autumn is here, a blackbird’s song on his lips, russet leaves in his hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, eyes green as apples.
Winter obliterates; an icy dementia. Autumn’s memory is deep. Inside each golden frond lives still the balmy warmth of chlorophyll-fuelled summer, and the pale promise of spring. Autumn is the cinnamon and bergamot scented season of hot-buttered nostalgia, where a cup of tea can cure all.
At this time of year, my heart yearns for a nothing more than a dog beside me, a long road ahead of me, and an apple and blackberry crumble waiting for me when I come home. But a cuddle with my cat and a slice of two of peanut butter toast will have to suffice for now!