I absolutely love this time of year, the changing of seasons, the cooling temperatures, the extra layers and feeling all snuggly. It makes my soul smile.
Every year I try to write something about autumn but I always end up thinking it to be really rubbish! I try to emulate the nature poems of Wordsworth and Keats, but when something has been perfected, you can’t add to it really can you?
Here is my attempt at writing a few paragraphs about this wonderful time of year:
As the year gets older, once again the temperatures get colder. Out come the jumpers and light jackets; no longer warm enough for bare arms. Maybe some cosy scarves will make an appearance for those brisk fresh mornings.
The sun is still shining, just hazier, nicely accenting the cool air and the harvest to be collected. The leaves will begin their change any day now; the streets littered with yellows, reds and bronzes, with a light crunch as you walk on through. You can’t help but kick up those leaves can you? Feeling like a kid again.
Some days may be rainy, miserable and grey, but you’ll feel light-hearted, dancing through puddles just like Gene Kelly. You’ll relish your warm coat, feeling rather snuggly as you walk through your surroundings, as autumn turns to winter.
And here is ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
I like the imagery that I am trying to create, but Keats just does it better and in rhyme!