September has to be my favourite month, not withstanding the departure of the swallows and the hint of winter in the air. Maybe it is the celtic soul that responds to the dying of things. Life is held most dear when it is leaving, when everything is richer for being understood finally as ephemeral. September is the month of zen, when we are closest to forever. It is a time of contrasts as the summer and winter battle it out, the foregone conclusion no discouragement to the waning season as the wind, the rain and the sun fight it out while the yellow light thickens and the clouds pile up, higher and higher, going for broke.

I cycled out into a blustery afternoon under a bright cyan sky, the sea a rumpled block of ultramarine and the grass nearly yellow, zinging in the slanting sun. Entering the supermarket I could see one of the anvil head clouds approaching, looming under the invisible roof of cold air, a stooping giant. On leaving, the giants’ shadow was upon the town, the rain beginning to swirl, stirring up the dust and earth, the smell of it rich in my nostrils. I cycled home into the wind and freezing rain that trailed under the majestic cloud like the stinging tentacles of a mythological jellyfish of the gods. The drops bit my cheeks and soaked my leggings, my skin was icy and alive. I grinned into it, unable not to. I imagined the colossus spinning over head…


…by the time I approached my house it had passed, and summer, tiring maybe, was still clinging on. The sky, and sea were blue again and the pock-marked road was shining with a filigree of puddles, threads of run off bubbling between wiggling ditches and leaning telegraph poles down down down towards the cliffs. Reaching my door, it seemed like, felt like, every atom was jumping with life. It was a beautiful day..




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