Autumn colours have lit it on fire - fiery oranges and humble browns, mellow yellows and soulless blacks. People pull out their cameras, all shapes and sizes, all makes and prices. I watch them watch Autumn. Does anyone hear the trees wail as their leaves die? I hear their distraught shrieking. Tormented, I run my hands over their trunks, press my forehead against their rough exterior. The leaves pirouette down and the trees rustle in mourning. Exhausted, I find a bench, for my heart is too full of their sorrow. My eyes drink in the world that passes by. And I am almost transported to my favourite garden. He squeezes her bottom and I am at once a voyeur - an eavesdropper to their intimacy. People walk past, in a hurry to be somewhere, any where. Their feet fall fast, smudging the leaves out of existence, till they are black; as black as the tar they fall on. The birds look flustered. The cold is disconcerting enough and to add to that the melodrama of autumn... Languages, all tastes and tongues, envelope me - a lady talks of a cello sitting in her attic. A man explains the sequence of the different seasons to his little girl. I shut out the chatter till it is a faint murmur. But can you calm the voice in your head? As thought upon thought unfolds in a messy jumble, I surrender.
This is the 300th post! It has been quite a journey from those first few posts. Thank you for walking along : )