Autumn is sailing in. The cool morning air, teased by the rising sun, forms fast-thinning veils of vapour over the lake.
Past, present, and future is carried in these mists. It is where the dreamer awakes.
My soul’s skin still craves summer’s warmth, and there is warmth to be found in a sheltered spot, later, when the afternoon’s sunlight blazes unhindered by the winds of change.
I am drawn to the transit of clouds and stand for an age to watch these shifting continents of air.
These thought-bubbles lift me higher, stealing memories and mood until I’m in a forever moment, senses in tune, and at one with everything. It provides a glimpse of omnipotence, exquisite and, at the same time, unbearable.
I am at the edge between here and there. It would be so easy to step through to another side, and perhaps I already have.
All around me, grasshoppers, dragonflies and butterflies pause briefly in the tepid heat. Do they know the season is changing? Do they know this moment will pass?
The cries of two buzzards lift me higher until I, too, am soaring on unseen wings.
Keats’ To Autumn rises up from within, a poem that first affected me almost forty years ago, and I bathe my face in the sun, close my eyes, and swoon in September’s air.