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  • Writer's pictureAmber

September, I love you

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness indeed - Keats knew what he was on about

It's the end of a late September day. The ground is wet; the air is close and unseasonably warm. The trees in the middle distance are hazy, giving way to a creeping mist. They're still green, sort of - that tired grey-green trees go when they've had about enough.

Down the avenue it's a different story, reds and golds and yellows shed like a ticker tape parade, the very image of the Autumn we hope for - the glory that recalls the sun, warmth and abundance, but lets us see our breath in the chill of morning.

September, I love your caprice, your squalls, your hair-in-the-face blustering, buffeting winds. I am carried with you, by you - you enrich me, like new life and blood in my veins. You bring me plums, and late rhubarb, but brambles too. It is like you to remind us that there must be balance in things, which must be why you're here and gone so quickly.

Soon you'll leave us with your log-crackling, spark-setting, chestnut-bearing brother, October. Don't think me fickle, September, if I love him too.

Photo by Autumn Mott on Unsplash​

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