Yesterday marked the last hurrah for Autumn. Our old friend Winter arrived this morning. Did you notice while zipping passed berry-laden hedges on the way to schools and work and shops? What a craftsman. If only such magic could be poured into pencil and paper, or paint and canvas.
Through Time’s rear-view mirror, I watched as Autumn grew fainter in the distance, sadly waving goodbye to the few remaining oak leaves— always the last to leave the stage. On the horizon I admired two swans gliding gracefully above the solitary heron patiently fishing for breakfast on his flooded plain.
The hush of the newly whitened winter garden was disturbed only by the chooking of bemused rooks poking their way through fields shared by dairy cows whose hides glistened in the early morning frost. It was Old Jack that egged the bovine soldiers on, whispering raspy puns in an icy voice, his white breath leading them wearily along a mud-encrusted towpath— hearts pumping.
As I witnessed the drama, I felt transported to another place, thought I heard our good man Frost chuckle in time to the laboured huff and puff belonging to an imagined pair of bell-strewn warm-bloods. I could almost see their dark chocolate heads bobbing through the knee-high frozen grasses, manes flapping; felt myself jostling from side to side as I followed in a gold-trimmed sledge piled high with blankets and laughing children.
Clapping gloved hands together to warm chilled fingers, I applauded as Winter emerged centre stage. Tightening my scarf and jacket, I sighed just a little while admiring the fine uncluttered views of silver trees lit up amidst a sky awash with neon contrails.
Farewell Autumn, your performance was exquisite. Bravo Winter, today you have at last awakened.
