... and the season is all about retreat...
But, oh field maple, you, so unprepossessing in spring and summer, gild the world in fall.
Golden memories... that's what the melancholy mood of autumn gives rise to as its consolation. Perhaps it's more nostalgia than melancholy... a kind of nostalgia ante finis (before the end).
Driving home from work, I remembered when the M1 wasn't a car park. Though I didn't drive on it much as I thought it was too busy. I remembered when drivers thanked you for letting them in - that was only a few weeks ago - why's everyone so awful?
My colleague remembered when Assistant Producers didn't think we broadcasters were just an expensive and awkward old-fashioned version of Siri.
My cats remembered when I had energy to play with them.
I remembered drawing and painting wonderful things. And when I was fierce and foxy and a sweet as summer meadows. Now? Not a golden field maple leaf, a crusty brown oak. Never mind. The oak is sacred.
I saw a couple of late dandelion clocks today and thought of your post. And yes, the oak is sacred x