They hear the music they patiently waited for and they leap up to meet it, skirts whirling

autumn

---

What could be more cliche than writing a poem about autumn, am I right? Well – it’s debatable whether what follows is a poem or a stream of consciousness or a brain dump. You decide. I remember writing this whilst sitting on my tiny bed in my tiny room in halls during first year. The golden leaves on the trees outside my window were being stirred by the wind in a way that seemed worthy of some words so here they are.

I’m slightly improving this as I type it onto the blog – don’t tell anyone.

---

The wind glides on the leaves and they come alive at its touch.
Leaf is no longer leaf - all its aspects are heightened, every colour takes on new energy,
a vibrancy and excitement suppressed just below the surface while the wind lay low
but as it rises the colours rise and bubble over and dance amongst each other in such a frenzy
that they are no longer green and yellow and orange but one.

These leaves are not passive. They do not, with unconscious ease, fall like some foolish damsel in the arms of the wind's mighty gusts.
Far from it. They hear the music they have waited for and they leap up to meet it, skirts whirling,
voices raised in unspeakable joy, for who can understand, who can explain such elevation?

Then silence seems to descend
and a deep stillness permeates the scene
but how can such utter delight ever be forgotten? No-
the leaves laugh in memory and a small tremor, a lilt remains

A sweeping glance brings to mind some static painting, some lifeless composition, a two dimensional death.
But the human hand can never understand, sweeping glances are unworthy.

And yet, despite it all, there remains a shadow.
This joy will soon cease in a cascade of falling dancers.
But this is nature, you say, in this too there is beauty. Ah, but with a touch of melancholy for we remember that
the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now
The faintest sigh escapes the heart of every dancer as she falls but just as we wait for the glory which shall be revealed in us, so too the fallen leaves patiently wait for the new song of the mighty gusts' Maker,
to which they will rise with a laughter purer than ever before and we too will understand, finally, eternally,
their unadulterated bliss.