AN AUTUMN WIND…

An Autumn wind came and it was full of new season guile and it blew about the garden with such ferocity that I felt fear and remorse at the same time. Fear for the winter to come and remorse for the summer leaving me.

A new lawn of golden leaves met my eyes beneath the Sumac trees. I could have cried if I allowed myself to or better still decided to close the blinds to block out the reality. Instead I stood there frozen by inactivity. By a sense of sudden loss.

I wanted to feel joy but it was not there. Instead I thought about the long cold wind filled days ahead, the wind reaching the shore south of us and stealing its way up along the pebbles and the rocks and then up the winding road and across the fields and through the cows and the houses and the trees and the twisted trees and the way the woman on the road might look or might not look at you depending on the day, the mood, the time, the way you might be.

I can pace as good as the next one. Look out at the naked trees. Decide on how it is. This place is good at making you see how it really is. There is no time for fantasy world or trying to believe you are in with the in-crowd. No the bog learns you.

It reaches into your soul this damned place. It says here are the pheasants. Listen. Here are the willow trees. Listen. Here is what you always thought never mattered. Listen. Here is the wind of yourself. Listen to yourself. Dig about in the reeds. Squelch your soul into the briars. Query the way nothing matters more than the open field and the way the curve of stone never makes you feel enclosed.

Listen to yourself. That’s what I know. Now. Wait and listen. No one needs to hear but you. Sometimes the foxes make that sound. I can’t even remember what it is now that sound but it comes at night. Late. An urgency to rouse me from my slumber. A sound that decides to remind me of something beyond my reach, of something far far away like the sound of the wind beginning, starting on a distant wave and gradually building up across my mind, across the stones of my existence trying to make sense.