It must be Autumn creeping in around the doors, like a little field~mouse seeking warmth, a cosy sun spot inside, out of the wind. Windows are no longer left open all day, the last of the summer's roses tapping at the glass, nodding their fading heads, sighing in sadness.
Now we find, before we venture out into the day, we rummage for socks, for errant shoes hiding way back among the dust and forgotten winter raiment, delve into drawers for something a little warmer to buffer the slight chill that sneaks up, kisses our skin.
Along the laneway the blackberries are promising to make up for our paltry tomato harvest, the first fallen leaves follow us, swirl in lazy dust devils at our heels, and the wires are lined with fat little starlings arriving for the winter, the air thronging with swallows, terns, and birds of all kinds readying themselves for the coming journey. And some days guns crack and echo out in the marsh, startling the trees that shake themselves, sending reams of birds into the grey air.
This morning, facebook kindly reminded me of my status this day last year: "All day the house was filled with butterflies, wandering inquisitively in open windows and doors, their curious dance arresting our gaze. And now they sleep, lining the walls of the rooms with their dusty dreams. I love this time of year." It made me realise, in contrast to last years garden, this year there seems to be a dearth of butterflies and sadly, moths too, though the season for them is still young enough, I hope.
And yes, it must be Autumn, for beside my bed is a gathering of another kind, an assemblage of books and magazines that are all about inspiration and making, for my fingers have begun to itch, to twitch and itch and long for thread, for wool and the deftness of needles and pins, the snip, snip of tiny scissors.
That longing that seems to migrate every Summer like a fickle bird, to leave me, to inexplicably leave all conscious parts of my brain that instead fill with picnics and sunshine and sand. And while I hope we do get our quota of September beach days, they will be beach days with cardigans pulled on, and were you to peep into my sewing tin when I get home, you may just see an outstanding collection of fine, golden sand amongst the haberdashery there.
And so, woven tightly in with my back-to-school lament that I will spare you with here, is one tiny shiny thread of solace. More time. For making, stitching, writing. (And I may yet finish this small piece in the continuing Redwork Tale)
And as the green sinks back down into the earth again, and everything outside my window falls into a restfulness, except perhaps the sea, I will be sweeping away the dust that found it's way in through the open Summer doors, shaking out the creases, and with a sigh I shall seat myself down and close my eyes and listen.
And as the tingle and twitch my fingertips grows, I will not turn when the door behind me gently creaks open for a moment, and Autumn, my muse, slips in on a chilly wind and sets down her bags.
Photos 1, 2, and 3 taken in Anna's Lovely Garden.