This first September weekend has brought the wind with it – the smell of deep reds and ochres on its tail. If it is not autumn yet then it is so nearly autumn you could be forgiven for making leaf bunting, and bringing out your stuffed pumpkins and your rust-orange scarves.
I would have autumn all year round, if I could. This liminal space before Autumn when on odd days, here and there, summer makes a final grab for survivial. Or deep Autumn, when fireworks crease the air and the streets are full of goblins and witches and devils.
I am thrilled it is September. This is when I want to be outside, until the smell of roasted vegetables and baking bread promises that inside is a better deal. This is when I dig out my soundtracks full of Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen and walk through the dry twilight air and when the gutters thicken with a foam of leaves and when almost everything is beautiful.