Today a sharp sour scent of chill and sadness blew in across the bay, defying the high blue sky. Autumn. Autumn comes. Strangest and saddest of all seasons. How I hate it.
Oh Spring smells dizzy and absinthe-green with drunken hope, bubbly with buds bursting into tremulous dances of desire; and Summer is ripe, rich spice and sultry heat - slow with languorous, swollen-lipped fertility...
Winter now, Winter is silence. Hushed whispers of rain, white silence, cleansing purity of cold, scourging that voluptuous sin from our skin, blanching us. Every Winter we are parchment patiently scoured for a new beginning. Each Winter is a season of prayerful fasting, waiting, waiting for the Sun to come again. Winter I can love.
But Autumn I loathe. Autumn is an overblown and blowzy whore, clad in scraps and rags of scarlet and gold - pretending to a lushness long gone. Autumn is a sad slattern, dropping colour, dripping wet putrescent leaves to be mangled by a million feet.
Autumn smells of death and decay. That frantic last dance of Indian Summer, that pretense of ripe apples and syrupy wine is a lie. Lean closer. Under that sweetness is the grey and bitter exhalation of decay.
So burn Autumn in a pyre, pile up high those slippery maggoty logs, the limp and viscous leaves. Burn it. Let fire devour that lie. Let Winter come and bring that grey and gentle mourning sky.
And so let us weep rain, and know that through that pain, we learn to hope again.
MC
Oh Spring smells dizzy and absinthe-green with drunken hope, bubbly with buds bursting into tremulous dances of desire; and Summer is ripe, rich spice and sultry heat - slow with languorous, swollen-lipped fertility...
Winter now, Winter is silence. Hushed whispers of rain, white silence, cleansing purity of cold, scourging that voluptuous sin from our skin, blanching us. Every Winter we are parchment patiently scoured for a new beginning. Each Winter is a season of prayerful fasting, waiting, waiting for the Sun to come again. Winter I can love.
But Autumn I loathe. Autumn is an overblown and blowzy whore, clad in scraps and rags of scarlet and gold - pretending to a lushness long gone. Autumn is a sad slattern, dropping colour, dripping wet putrescent leaves to be mangled by a million feet.
Autumn smells of death and decay. That frantic last dance of Indian Summer, that pretense of ripe apples and syrupy wine is a lie. Lean closer. Under that sweetness is the grey and bitter exhalation of decay.
So burn Autumn in a pyre, pile up high those slippery maggoty logs, the limp and viscous leaves. Burn it. Let fire devour that lie. Let Winter come and bring that grey and gentle mourning sky.
And so let us weep rain, and know that through that pain, we learn to hope again.
MC
Brilliant
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DeleteI post but sometimes wonder if anyone reads!
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