Owls haunted and hunted through moon-splashed trees. Sights Exmoor — September The oak leaves are still a-light, but barely. It is also the season of fruitpicking: apples, pears and to any child… blackberries!
He too must die. Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy. The last dragonfly whirrups and flutters, his wings a-glirr in that magical space between river and mist.
Think about how a poet or writer could turn autumn into a literary device. They are not the light, aerated mizzling of spring showers. He twirls as much as he walks and jumps with both feet into every damn puddle. Yet autumn is far from miserable.
I take delight in it, even though I recognize in it some inadequacy. General I am a lover of the autumn, of the colours that are bold and homely, strong and yet a call to remember our Earth and all she gives in the harvest months.
Soon the hills will be aflame, a riot of gold and red. When the wind calmed, the dance ended and the leaves landed to form new pools that looked identical to the ones they were in before they started to frolic.