CRISPY GOLD LEAF

The trees are just starting to turn. I mean they’re green still, but hidden in the thick summer foliage are tints of brown and orange.

The horse chestnuts are brimming with autumn too - green, spiky capsules hang from their distinctive leaves, each promising a shiny brown conker. It won’t be long.

“It doesn’t seem as though we’ve had much summer,” I said, eyes on the grey sky and shapely oak trees waving in the park. Sammy remarked that we sort of have - certainly we had a couple of heatwave days, but yes, she conceded, it’s also rained a lot over the last few weeks. That it has, lady, that it has.

She is a much bigger fan of autumn than she is of a hot summer. For her the natural cool-down of a bright blue sky and trees that turn themselves to paintings - it’s all art for her soul. There are cosy nights in, and warm jumpers from the drawer. There’s that fragrance of cinnamon in the air as she dreams about Christmas. Autumn is all hope and all joy.

We wandered through the park. It felt a bit like it was about to rain. You know the kind of thing: the wind picked up and there was a sort of chill in its voice. I was busy thinking about how I don’t mind the autumn either - especially the first part, the season that I call ‘Keats’s Fall’. The second half, the drizzly dark and dismal bit where soggy leaves blow into your face and there’s sleet coming sideways at you - I’m not so thrilled by that.

It’s all coming though, isn’t it? It’s all on the way, inevitable as the sunrise. Maybe I should take a crispy gold leaf out of Sammy’s book and simply make the most of it.