Autumn is coming.
You can smell it in the air, and see it as the sky gets higher and bluer and everything becomes a little crisper around the edges.
The leaves will begin to turn. The apples are already dropping onto our decking, huge, russet balls of sweetness that tell us to store up for the winter to come.
It is colder, sharper, everything is coming into focus as you begin to see the angles and planes of the trees again.
Seed heads fill the borders, and the earth smells loamy as I turn it over.
I love it.
And soon winter will be upon us, as the day snuggles deeper into the night, and street lights bloom like the flowers that we miss.
I am reading The Tightrope Walkers by David Almond. His work is gorgeous. His prose is mysterious and brutal, magic rubs against the edges of the mundane and the borders between this world and the next shift and shimmer from paragraph to paragraph. It is perfect.
Here he is, talking about the winter:
Tyneside became monochrome: white patches of roofs and fields and tracks, black roads, dark walls, dark river, dark distant sea. Dad told of the freezing shipyards, of men in pullovers and hats and gloves and scarves working and cursing beside fiercely burning braziers. The men slithered across the salted decks and over salted gangways…We found birds lying dead in frozen gardens. Cars skidded and crashed. Diesel froze in the tanks of buses. Trains didn’t run. Schools were closed. Kids slid and sledged through the streets and lanes. Our skin was chafed and scorched. We knew chilblains and delight.