That watery yellow circle of summers fading dreams lowers west, and another day of September’s teasing warmth ebbs away, as if conducted to a close by an invisible orchestra, a silent symphony of colour, the conductor slowing the baton as night creeps in.
Freshly coated folk, their countenances awoken, soured, rusted by the sudden reality of chilly dusk, make haste to their abodes. The Indian summer promises new dawn, eternal weeks of radiant autumn heat, often penance for the June of disappointment, that July that never was, an August most forgettable, and laughs as its victims desperately ignore the truth of the seasons.
Wardrobes now greet the relics of summer for months of uninterrupted companionship, as if they ever parted… The pathetic schedule of many a Saturday nights viewing, that lowest denominator of winter bliss, more appealing by the hour. Hibernation and long nights of ‘what to do’.
You fool us so ! you seasons of mocking condescension, you predators on English longing.
September, your beauty is the last meal, and, like condemned prisoners, we partake wistfully in its morsels, pensively sorrowful in the knowledge of summer’s pending doom. Wishing away your beautiful delusion.