It’s remarkable how the changing seasons change our thought patterns and we turn to those poets we have loved, like WB.
The Falling of the Leaves
AUTUMN is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
William Butler Yeats
Or Seferis and his poems of nostalgia.
“if I’m sorry it’s a private matter
like the feeling for things so simple
that, as they say, one’s passed beyond them”.
It’s a time for red wine and fires and the satisfaction of knowing that the tomatoes are done, the grapes are gone, the cupboards are full of apple sauces and relishes, the olives are yet to be picked and preserved. The trees are cut, the wood is ready and the garden has been put to bed to sleep until spring.
It’s a time to wonder again about the world: what is happening in Palestine now that the news no longer shrieks to us? How is the world? Is there a recession or not? And how will we and our friends cope?
To watch the rain sweep across the hills and to remember the past good things of summer. A time to attend to those unwritten essays and papers and to plan for new ideas. To maybe embark on that project that has been lying in wait for my body to stay calm enough and not need to move in the sunshine.
A time to be content in the memories and comfort of our surroundings.