Ode to Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

John Keats beautifully encapsulates the mood of Autumn in his words. He continues with mention of the 'cyder-press', 'twined flowers', and 'gathering swallows' who twitter in the sky. Without mentioning colour, he seems to paint my mind with the burgundys, mustards and olive greens I associate with Autumn in such a masterful way and even more remarkably he is able to evoke an intense sensuous explosion of the delicate smell of cinnamon and pumpkin and spiced apple and the sound of shrill birds and crunching leaves underfoot and the feeling of a harsh wind against ruddied cheeks and the scudding of clouds against a sky of blues and pinks and the warmth of watching it rain out of the window with just a few mere observations of his natural surroundings.

I love Autumn, and with today marking the season's dawning, I feel I am now allowed to wear huge baggy sweaters and drink cocoa and wrap my room in owl fairy lights. Autumn means harvest and Halloween and cornucopias and fireworks and sanguine hues of red and white and green amongst the golds and browns and russets. And before it becomes bitter and bleak, Autumn means savouring these last glimpses of sunlight while we can.