THE GREAT SEASONAL CYCLE

Back to the park then. They’ve cut the really long, stalky grass that got dried out in the heatwave, and underneath, green, verdant grass has returned. It all looks rather neat.

I remember this happened last year. It’s all part of the great seasonal cycle I suppose: in June, the buttercups and the clovers spread like an ocean of green and bright yellow. In July and August, the grass grows tall and dry, and in September it’s all cut short, ready for the oncoming Autumn and Winter.

“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” said Shakespeare, once. You’re not wrong, Wills. Although I think we can probably make the most of the next season just as well, once this one’s rent has expired. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?

The sunset tonight is a pale pink and blue one, much like an old lady’s wallpaper. Rosy, fluffy altocumulus clouds span a light-coloured sky. The trees are still, no breeze, no wind. Dog owners chatter, whistles, and shouts of children carry through the still air. The two smoking jokers on the next bench are talking about payday loans with a smattering of F words, the crunch of empty cans, and a cloud of green, sweet smoke. It’s all part of the great seasonal cycle, right?

Meanwhile, I’m back to the thing that makes sense for me - writing songs. Before I came out I was working on one about being ‘ready’ for whatever is next. There is a weird kind of joy at just singing out your heart in tears at the piano. Perfectly formed songs don’t tumble out of those moments, but in some way, I think the pieces do. The ‘work’ bit is crafting them together. Though of course, even that, as tough as it is, is a real joy compared to lying in the dark listening to cricket.

I have a tendency to believe that seasons last longer than they do; that things are permanent. But of course, when the air gets chilly and the grass grows short, when the sun hides behind a cool flowery sky and the trees hold their breath, when you see these things and feel these things... well. It’s probably time to grab a thick jumper, a cup of hot tea and some buttered toast, and then get back to the piano. It’s all just seasonal.