It’s a melancholy season, but there’s always something outside to brighten the spirits
Early November morning after another lockdown announcement. Mood: melancholy. My walk is coloured with rust and bronze-aged leaves, near-skeletal trees barely holding fractured orange hues. I crest the hill to the ember red of an acer, stand under it and bathe in its warmer light.
Even the gate seems saddened, dripping from perpetual rain, the sign fallen. The site is still gloomy, the scant hour saved earlier slipping away. The call of the dark and soil more urgent now. A wheelbarrow, near full with rainwater, reflects the Halloween trees shuddering in the slight wind.
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