FULL ROUND OF SEASONS
A foggy morn
The minutes past
Then Winter’s born
Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition passionately orchestrated, resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cooly illuminated cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a Harvest Moon. Pale purply hued shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.
It was a lovely keen autumn evening for for a bottle, er… glass of red wine and cinema – mine was a Velvet Crush Pinot Noir, rich, expansive black cherry with hints of baking spice and a smooth lingering finish while viewing the third episode of the first season of Foyle’s War, “A Lesson in Murder”. Salude!
A silver-gray balmy breezy day. The winds are gusting to twenty-six miles per hour and the temperature is hovering warmly in the seventies. With rain threatening, the bleached white walks are already stained pink from moisture. The wood and it’s canopy of chartreuse, ochre, burnt orange and scarlet foliage are whipping, bending to and fro in an energetic Watusi of a dance. The leaves, rustling a louder song, sing interrupting the softer frenetic chorus of crickets and remaining insects chirping the last symphony for the season, the last hurrah.
As the chlorophyll wanes
Ochre sage blanches high
The Wood is all fane
The axis tilts by.
The flood of rain persists, and a slick wet gel clings to the leaves of the verdant canopy, creating a greasy shine, reflecting the silver-gray pall of the cloak overhead. Darkly quiet, the soggy verdant canopy interrupts the cacophony of sluicing vehicles slogging their commute on the nearby highways. The zephyr tranquil, precipitation has become vertical, a translucent sheer, draped beyond the bay window, gossamer before the wood. Lonely droplets of silvery water drip sadly from trembling leaves, falling reluctantly towards the saturated loam. The storm, an ashen shroud o’er the peninsula, hazzards to hang on for hours and days to come.
THE THIRD SEASON
The prize pines at the perimeter of the wood have dropped their needles, carpeting the path with an ample amber cushion. A familiar aroma emitted from spilled sap, intense and intoxicating evokes in an olfactory system a false sense of security. Looming, the threat of precipitation drapes over the peninsula darkly, a silver-gray pall. Quivering from the rotation of an easterly flow the verdant canopy laced with an ochre glow, proof of a seasonal change and an autumn creeping toward winter, sends singularly chosen leaves fluttering like fairies to a new resting place on the floor of the wood.