First of November

The clocks have gone back and all is still. The trees are molten gold. The garden’s dieback mode infectious, the air is damp and cold. No texture to the sky, its sullen grey devoid of shapes of clouds, and no birds fly. A melancholic mist shroud drapes the resolutely silent land, waiting, knowing change accepting yet again. A blanket soft unfurled by hand unseen, the autumn stage directing. The players now must reconcile as winter signs unfold and glad we are that for a while the trees are molten gold.