The rain comes in like it’s been produced by a machine on a film set. Heavy and slanting, it collides with the drifts and puffs of air from the boiler outlet. For reasons I can’t explain, but probably have something to do with the un-Novemberish warmth we’ve been having lately, it makes me think of summer, when rain was what we longed for. Whole weeks, and not a drop as the parks baked to dust.
Soon, in a matter of days, some people will be calling it winter. I won’t, because for me it always sits with the solstice; the shortest day, when optimism, fear and magic collide ineffably with the stretch of cold, lengthening days to come.
But for now this is the end of autumn. A few desolate leaves cling to the sycamores that dominate this part of the neighbourhood, which I look at and think about how I would rip out and replace with something less dominant.
This morning, between the restless hours of 3 and 4am, when my mind goes over small but persistent matters of admin, I watched my hands go through the motions of cutting back and pulling out a hearty sycamore seedling that has nestled itself beneath paving and behind drainpipe. I should have got it in the summer, and while it is undeniably sickly, I can’t imagine successfully removing roots from under those hard slabs.
The movie rain machine has stopped and dusky blue sky has been ushered in its place. Quiet settles before the squirrels return to investigate, then bounce off, the manure on the beds. The nasturtiums, so late to bloom six months ago, continue to torrent over the tall chimney pot that remains an object of discussion in this household. Yesterday, I found a tiny true leaf bursting from the soil, scalloped like the face of a cartoon frog. It seems impossible that frost will come and kill them.
Funny, spring-like weather we’re having. But then, spring was as hot as summer, summer as grisly as autumn. Who knows what winter, this quiet threat on the horizon - all whispered Christmas and confusion - will hold.
