Autumn in Plymouth

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

— Albert Camus

I have admired autumn fondly and have spent evenings writing about the intricacies and colours of the season. I have been immersed in its bounty and glory that shines through the tranquil and humid days. The days it rains, and rainwater is mixed with soil, it seems like the whole encompass of nature is humming a song.

My anthropomorphic cadences transport me to another realm – the magnificence of sunshine and the splendor of quiet nights full of rain. It reminds me of a dialogue from the movie You’ve Got Mail: “Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.”

There are many walks I have taken in and around Plymouth. Our own Drake’s Garden is filled with autumnal hues. The place resembles a lovely little island, far away from hustle and bustle, where one could take a book and a cup of coffee in their hands, and read away as dramatic skies plunge further onward.

I have engaged in full autumn gusto this year. I was reminded of the first glimpse I had of Germany last year around the same time, whilst I traveled with a co-artist friend, as she drove me from the border of The Netherlands to there – the subtle fragrance of first rain, the wonderful hue and ripeness of fruit. It seemed like nature was saying something without words.

I have a few memorable experiences of my own autumn feeling as I walked along the city of Plymouth, kicking leaves (much to the annoyance of some) and jumped about as a child. It is my most adored of seasons.

The clocks have gone back by an hour and the anvil of winter is setting in slowly, but steadily. I can notice the temperatures fall, rain gaining momentum by the passing of each day. I have stocked up woollies and my supply of warm food.

In the meantime, I am basking in the enthralling spread of colours and the arithmetic of leaves: varied shapes, myriad curves and interesting patterns. My adoration for autumn even translates into me picking up fallen leaves of different colours and using them as bookmarks.

 Which season do you like most, dear readers?

In the same vein, I’m glad to share with you two links of my published work in Peacock Journal (USA) and Spillwords (Poland) respectively – about seasons.



I leave you with three lines from ‘To Autumn’, a poem by John Keats –

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


Soaked in autumn,