"Autumn. The year's last loveliest smile. " -John Howard Bryant.
TAWNY LIONESS by Ella Young (1867-1956) ( Irish poet)
I like the sound of the word, Autumn. It is the really austere season.
Everything burns into a glory of colour and disappears. The green splendour of Spring degenerates into lushness.
The leaves are tarnished by dust, but the flaming reds and yellow, the pale gold....
the rose colour, the splendid purple-red of these tress will swirl with the wind.
One splendid moment of sailing in the blueness of the sky, one moment of motion beyond anything that a leaf could dream of.
The forests will stand bare, beautiful in bareness, against the sky.
They will not be dead, they will not be even asleep heavily.
They will be dreaming of springtime, furtively pushing buds into symmetry.
Steadying the sap for the riot of Spring.
The earth burns with a colour of orange, with the colour of red, burns with a purple blackness.
Shows its ribs of stone, coloured, blanched carved into fantasy.
Its trees branch out with a delicate precision. Its cypress trees spring like the flame.
I love those cypress trees. In them the very passion of the earth springs upward.
Lifting itself with a song. This country is a lioness, tawny, alert, passionate, beautiful....
(Spencer lies on the mat Smokey used to sit on)
"Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons." -John Bishop
Photographs 2017
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