Life in Autumn is but a sepia-toned shadow on a wall. It dissolves in a moment. When the snow falls, Autumn’s warm touch can leave no fingerprints of mist on Winter’s frosty panes of glass.

The other morning, I stepped outside my door and was met by a chill, yet gentle, breeze. It felt like it had been a while since I was encircled by wind, rather than draped in the humidity of warm Summer air. I hastily put on a jumper. Autumn has arrived, I thought.

Autumn air has a particular quality. A crisp edge floats on top of an otherwise warm, enriching breeze. Autumn warms your heart, rather than chills you to the marrow, like Winter. It subtly arrives, not drawing much attention to itself.

In Autumn, trees begin to relinquish their fruits; their skeletal limbs still dressed in Summer jackets. Leaves surrender their deep green colour to a palette of golds and reds, and tumble from the branches to request one last, wistful dance in the wind. The light fades earlier into a gentle hue, the horizon becomes adorned by vague, pink reflections.

Autumn is a time of preparation. Flowers close their buds to defend them from the cold, and animals begin to gather stores for the winter ahead. Slowly the earth begins to temporarily shut down into a period of stillness. Autumn is a time to wind down and look after oneself. It is the perfect time to reflect.

Autumn in literature is often synonymous with the melancholic. Persuasion in Jane Austen is described as ‘autumnal.’ The season reflects Anne Eliot’s slow decline into what she believes will be her spinsterhood: her sighs reveal her fear that her “last smiles” are already behind her.

The arrival of Autumn in literature is often seen as the end of something beautiful: plants that were so recently verdant become decay before our eyes, days end prematurely, the light weakens. And then, darkness. The ‘Autumn of life’ means the closing of days, forever.  

Autumn reminds me of transience. The earth’s physical changes symbolise how nothing lasts forever, but equally that nothing is ever lost. Life is cyclical. The sun may be waning now, but will reaffirm its presence in the Spring.

Autumn holds a mirror up to nature, and in it we can find images and reflections of ourselves. Trees cannot be evergreen, and neither can life. Our journeys will always be coloured by happiness and triumph, but inflected by pain. They cannot always have the golden sheen of Summer.

The leaves of Autumn arrive with the faint touch of a hand, only to remind us of what is real.

Autumn is about becoming and disappearing. Fading and arriving. Projecting and interrogating the self in the silent slumber of the season.

It is but a sepia-toned shadow on a wall. It dissolves in a moment. By Winter, it’s warm touch can leave no fingerprints of mist on its frosty panes of glass.

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