Sylvia Plath, 1956
Working in the glasshouse, on a terraced, cultivated allotment below Albert Road as Sorrow and Joy glide in. This Magpie Pair, one a repetition of the other: Black and White like they are cold winter birds. I felt this year was a repetition, a repetition of years past.
Repetion in poets is a sign of a Death Wish they say. How ‘they’ know is a mystery.
How quickly hot living turns to pale dying, though. What a shock the End of Summer is.
Summer changed to Autumn here on Hunger Hill. Storm clouds divided the whole sky once horizontally then vertically with a burning intense sun in between. I noticed on Hunger Hill the cloud banks temporarily hang over the town bellow and dash it with rain.
The Death of Joy was so quick. Unable to participate I looked on passive and watched the season change. Despite watching enjoying being in summer, a feeling of being in the red hot present, despite knowing the approaching colours were pale, I stayed still and witnessed the change from Summer to Autumn happen on a single day.
Art conceals art and underneath is the nitty gritty. Skin conceals and contains sometimes unpleasant reality. Passive Enjoyment of The Changing of the Season may leave you vulnerable to the full meaning of Autumn but it is better to feel than not to.
Life is transitory and ephemeral. If sensitised, souls feel this as they leave August and enter September.
Over there in Trent Bridge there is a family of fifteen Magpies. They apparently decorate their nests with jewels.
No Mayflies here but a Dragonfly repeatedly checks intrusion in to its territory.
Winds are now from the north. Time for a change.