Thursday, 23 September 2010
Autumnus. Blue turns darker. The greys gradually descend upon us, trickling down like water-colours across the canvas, before the harsh, thick oil paints of winter black submerge them into the landscape.
Fall; as the leaves drop, so does the temperature, so does our temperament. Woebegone drops start to seep onto the skin. A lament of summer gone, the sun and promise gets lost amongst a polaroid of saturated faded memory.
Autompne. Nature begins to age. Once blooming foliage crumbles into wrinkled maturity. Like dying bud heads, our brittle selves start to buckle. Things are changing. It turns. The true New, despite the fraud of January.
Autumn is the reflection in the gentle water of the ancient small stream that flows through a country field; so endless in its journey, so quietly relentless. It's seen it all before. Mellow but triumphant; the dark reality lays dormant underneath. It patiently waits for the inevitable next mortal to find it and catch the brief reflection before they become the next victim; leaving nothing but a shadowy phantom of what was, at one stage, a seemingly endless summer.