"drifted on to some other mother's window
like a truant angel"
Artwork by Jenny Biglands
Autumn is my favourite season. Always has been. There is a melancholic beauty to gold leaf framed woodland paths, misty sunrises and blustery days that I find irresistible. I love it when it is cold enough to really need a warm jumper and a log fire. All the more so these days, when the heat of summer feels more existential threat than holiday treat.
But it’s the stories of autumn that really compel me. I enjoy a summer adventure story or a dark, gothic winter tale as much as the next person. But autumn is a time for tales of grief. Perhaps that’s why autumn has always felt like a more honest season to me. A time to admit what we are grieving and maybe share it, while staring into flames, our hands wrapped around a warm mug, whilst the wind whirls leaves in miniature tornados outside. It’s not that I prefer grief to laughter. I think they are both there all the time. It’s just that autumn is just a little bit more honest about it perhaps.
The poem I’m sharing today is about all that. I hope you enjoy it. I recommend reading it with a cup of tea, preferably sitting next to a log fire on a windy day.
But then I always say that…
Everything you read here is free. But if you like and you're feeling generous, why not buy John a coffee. It will give him a warm sense of well being and joy, and feed his ever growing caffeine habit.