Autumn: the season of bounteous fecundity and mellow fruitfulness, of the drizzle of amber leaves, of moments that stand suspended in mid air, languidly holding up its hand to the impatient summons of monotonous time, of Wordsworth’s figure of a solitary reaper and the silent swish of her scythe cutting through the heavy afternoon air in one fluid motion.
Of the sedate ochre, hiding, almost apologetically, in deeper folds of its fabric, a fiery dash of scarlet reds, incandescent oranges and a sliver of fuchsia thrown in as if on an afterthought, like the glowing embers of a cosy little fire that has curled up with the approaching dusk.
Of murmuring brooks that sigh contentedly, to no one in particular, as they meander to nowhere in particular singing a nonchalant lullaby and despite protestations, gently tucking in and putting the more tempestuous summer to sleep.
Of cobbled thoroughfares and the familiar crackle of leaves under early morning footsteps.
Of eternity tucked into a moment, a moment that lasts for all eternity.