Tuesday, 07:50, London
Fully, the weather feels like it’s turned enough for the transition to feel more solid, settled, embedded. It’d been coming the last couple of weeks. A cooler night here, a gloomy day there. But it hadn’t really built or established into a full feeling. Blue skies returned or warmth rebuilt. Now, a coolness has settled in past a point of returning.
In the tilting of light, shadows lengthening in the afternoon, the days descending towards the equinox give rise to a feeling of autumn. In the trees too, the browning of leaves at the fringes, a dullness settling into their glow.
Last year, the canopy disbanding stretched out into November and, in their final patchy remains, December. Two years ago, I moved into a shared house with friends in South London. It was mid-November and a second cherry blossom was coming back to the trees. I’m not sure if that’s normal but I’ll leave it to chance.
It’s still a long journey to deep-winter from here. But it’ll help to have these anchorlines, these notes, tethered through and out to spring next year.
Not only is the arrival of autumn evident in the air and the trees and birds, it’s an unavoidable topic of conversation. Every video call I had yesterday started with a commentary on the weather. A collective donning of jumpers reflecting a response to the season.
Lamenting a summer that hadn’t quite reached their expectations, some were unhappy about its departure. Others seemed settled. A couple were offended, cheated by time and their decisions. I offered balance, suggesting we might look back on these kinds of summers with gratitude.
Maybe there’s a grief in the changing of seasons.