November Leaves

Quite a few Novembers have passed through my life – one of the first things I had published (in the school magazine) was a poem called November which I wrote, aged about 12 maybe, while sitting on the station platform waiting for the train home. But I can’t remember a November where I have been so fascinated by fallen leaves. I don’t really understand this. Is it because my eyes look downwards more, or is it the colours, because I am thinking of painting again? Maybe. These are, I think, leaves from some kind of a cherry, lying on the grass of a local park, Henderson Park, which is small, and full of personal memorials.

I like to scan leaves, and picked up a large handful, and because was busy threw some water on them and left them in an empty bird food bucket, in the cupboard of my workroom; and of course when I remembered them they were nowt but a soggy mess.

Perhaps it is this that so touches me, the transience of those beautiful colours.

I am trying to learn Italian, as I have told learning a new language is good for the mind, and find I am using a dried leaf as a bookmark.