The Pearls of Catharsis Times Issue 02, Dec 2016 | Page 8

Colour

On the last Sunday of October at 2.00 am the UK clocks are turned back one hour , and like that our summertime seems gone . Our musings turn and we become so preoccupied with the weather that our conversations change .

Samuel Johnson long ago observed ~ " When two Englishmen meet , their first talk is of the weather "

For sure the nights draw in and with every waking morn we rise in eagerness to peek between the curtains , to witness summer ' s startling greens give way to autumn ' s undertones .

Nature inventor , mentor of colour - and before our eyes the leaves begin to patinate , fanfares of rust-reds , citrus yellows and burnished gold - All soon transfigured of time and geography – Falling on the breeze to line the streets and clutter drains - ochre victims , wrinkled of innocence , now newly dead of hope .

Once they would be left wabi-sabi wise , imperfect , and unfinished . And we could walk surrounded , to ponder natures art and the human life through which it passes .

These days the council send teams of men , profuse with leaf blowers , scoops and lorries to de-litter our highways . What was once a part of autumns transient finery is now declared arboreal rubbish .

Then the parks and fields , those unspoiled open places - The imperious Oak , last to lose its leaves and fill its corner of a barren field . A tepid sun hung low in clear skies , reveals a home to squirrel drays , a crow ' s nest high upon this mighty tree . All crackled grain and greys of wet gnarled bark , are these the colours autumn brings ?