mortality and the turning seasons

There can be a frisson of melancholy as autumn turns towards winter, especially after such a wonderful late September as we have just had. One of these photos was taken in late May and one on October the first. The October day had a delighftful chill to it towards evening, but otherwise the two days had a similar feel.

One is a beach on Pen Llyn, the other on Ynys Môn; I'll leave anyone who knows North Wales to work out which is which, and which is when.

Watching the subtle delight of autumn colours emerging day by day might remind me of time's wingéd chariot; however golden the autumn of my life may feel, it's still my autumn.

In truth, I don't often feel melancholy about autumn; that's not to claim any great effort of will or general self-bracing. I am hopelessly addicted to the cycle of the seasons. I once lived in a place with no real seasons, and I didn't like that aspect of the place. It felt wrong.

I love the process of seasonal change, and being in amongst it all.  Feeling the low vibrations of the turning wheel makes me belong, whether it's on a beach, or in the garden, where colour continues right on into autumn, against the backdrop of the changes in the hedgerows and trees all around us.

And if I'm lucky enough to have a few quiet minutes on a Llyn cliff-top, to hear the sea below, then I am in the moment, able to accept the turning of the years. 

I have been fortunate, come what may.