Autumn….my
favourite season, though this year it seems to have decided to make its
entrance a little early and take us by surprise. From working in the garden in
a tee shirt a couple of weekends ago, to donning a winter woolly jumper during
the week, Tassie is doing its thing, messing us about. And it’s not only the
human occupants who are wondering about the seasonal cycle, even some plants
are confused with bright warm sunshine one day, chilling winds the next. A
friend has a plant that is simultaneously displaying its autumn colours while
sending out new shoots as if it’s spring. I poke my head out from behind the
blind each morning like the poor plant, wondering what is the appropriate
apparel for the day.
I do like the
fact though that the grass has finally recognised it’s time to slow down and
not demand to be mowed so often. Preparations for the approaching months are
underway with firewood stacked, though I have refused to succumb to the
temptation over the last few cold evenings to light the fire. It’s only March I
keep saying, I shouldn’t have to light the fire for almost another month yet,
so I hope it’s not a foretaste of a long cold winter, but even that I have to
admit I really wouldn’t mind.
The sun is
actually shining today, hardly a cloud in the sky after these few grey days, so
I might as well make the most of it and get out in the garden to mulch and
prune and help it prepare for hunkering down and braving the frosts and bitter
winds that are to come.
The poplars are
always the first to let us know the cycle of the seasons is moving on, lining the edges of the
surrounding country roads as they shed their leaves, and as others show the
first signs of yellow and orange, russet and red, I thought I’d pull out a poem
penned last year.
AUTUMN
Jars
with orange screwtop lids
stand
in a row
side
by side
neatly
under the kitchen window.
Ginger
biscuits, salted nuts
crackers
and soft dried apricots.
Ripe
red apples,
pears
and autumn mandarins,
Imperials
mind you, only ever Imperials
fill
the bowl on the bench.
What
delight to peel their thin loose skin
and
fill the air
with
such delicious sweetness.
Sparks
fly
as
a log shifts in the fire
and
a shaft of sunlight
heralds
the passing
of
the morning shower,
beckoning
me outside.
No
warmth there
but
its brightness touches the leaves
of
the liquidamber
tinges
them with gold
shines
seductively scarlet
on
the stately maple,
suffuses
the air
with
a blood orange glow.
One
by one
in
twos and threes
the
embers of my burning bush
fall
soundlessly
sacrificially
soft
under my feet,
a
sacred orange carpet
for
my cold bare feet.
©
Di Adams 2014
