That'll be autumn then

The air was colder today. It was dark until 8am and I'm wearing a jumper I haven't worn since last winter.

We went for a walk in the woods and the leaves fell around us in a confusing fluttering familiarity: part butterfly but too cold; part snow but too warm.
I get a fix of reality in the woods but also I feel incredibly sad. The small wood looks small, fragile and lonely. It's like a taste of what should be; a pathetic exhibit of the past.

I gave my favourite twisty oak tree a good squeeze as I walked past. It has strong shoulder-like branches clothed in soft moss and it feels like a friend. Because of the windy slopes it has learnt to grown in twists and is leaning to one side but emanates strength and endurance.

As I dawdled I played with words in my head, and thought about writing: I thought about all the things I wanted to write today: things to discuss, things that I didn't want to leave hanging and other things I wanted to make sense of. I thought about how I probably wouldn't end up making a record of any of my thoughts, but I found myself feeling okay about this and actually pretty positive. There's this assumption that to be a writer we must write regularly but I thought how that should also include all the writing we do in our heads. If we think about how we are arranging words and the words we are using or omitting we are still practising writing.

After the walk Richard went for a surf.
The sky gradually clouded over throughout the afternoon and it's now raining heavily.

There's some pretty awful weather heading our way so I'm glad we got our fix of trees and sun today.