On the death of the summer lawn

Summer is being hustled out of town as, right on cue, the autumn winds begin to send skirts and leaves swirling. A little squirrel was so absorbed in his urgent foraging that I nearly ran over him on my pre-breakfast tour of Clapham Common this morning; I was so busy marvelling at the overnight transformation in the park to notice him until our brief, startled face-off. With a flick of his tail, he scampered up an oak tree in a huff and I ran off home over lawns that were green yesterday. A lonely pink feather lingered after the party, discarded from someone's feather boa, and found itself in new company as it slowly drowned in browning leaves. I was nearly overtaken by pity for myself and the dying season as I cycled home this evening, after a crazy day of rehearsals and dance class, through a city full of bedraggled people sheltering from a sky full of rain. But then I was home and the hot shower was a glorious gift, and I remembered that I love being alive in the wet cold night, particularly when I get to come home to my wonderful husband and our little nest.