For all my recent complaining about autumn, it does have one
expression that fills the heart with a melancholy, yet still rich, kind of
comfort. I saw it in Bag Lane
today when I walked down to post a letter.
The trees along the fringes of the Old Rectory garden were
between worlds: half clothed in dappled golds and browns and reds and greens,
but now shamelessly revealing the stark and skeletal black branches of their
inner selves. And beneath them, mirroring – or maybe echoing – their new-found
transparency, were the verges, deep in the stillness of the fallen ones nestled
into the bottoms of dark hedgerows and flowing into the footings of old stone
walls.
The air was damp, quiet and misty, and everything glowed in
its swansong.
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