Stomping through London yesterday in the rain: dodging pedestrians now complicated by the necessity of jumping puddles. I glance down to see the leaves underfoot, glazed to the wet pavement, coloured shadows against the grey stone. Autumn is turning, or should i say Fall falling? Later than usual, but the gold, yellow and red is suffusing the green, fading into end of year bleakness with one final blaze of glory.
It’s a transition time: green to brown, summer to winter. Hot to cold. And as with any transition: uncertainty. The weather becomes more variable, less predictable. Summer falls but winter not yet here: transition.
Today in Wales, stomping through an ancient woodland: brambles clawing at my legs, sun setting across the valley. Underfoot: leaves. Red, brown and blackened. Fallen. A hundred miles from the city here, but leaves abound.
They’ve served their purpose: used, discarded. Like rubbish, but not the rubbish on the street. The rubbish underfoot in the gutters of the city. This is part of the circle: from leaf to soil, soil through the winter light, then first buds of spring. Spring into summer: young buds reaching for the light, bearing fruit and seed, flowers abundant. Then back to the fall: circles and light, winter and Fall.
I like this cycle, the sense of eternity, as i watch the leaves at my feet. Beautiful even as they fall.