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?