The Last Days of White Linen
The boat gives a soft shudder as it runs onto the sand. Nudged awake from my reveries I am startled to see its sails rather tattered and torn, its once vibrant stripes of white and blue now faded into a tired grey. I rub my eyes and gaze around. When did the morning light, once so gauzy and pale, become sharp enough to paint the landscape with shadows? When did the pathways, once glittered with beach sand, find themselves strewn with soft yellow leaves?
Sighing, I gather my straw hats and sand buckets, my beach books and espadrilles, and clamber out of the weary summer ship.
These are the last days of white linen.
Any midnight now, the garden will fall silent, its orchestra of cicadas will have packed up and gone.
Soon the trees will tire of their gowns of green, and robe themselves in the fiery garments of fall.
I have begun the short journey into another season and my heart stirs with every step that I take. I pass through faded gardens and smile, knowing they are soon to be filled with purple cabbages and pumpkins. Placing my hands in my pockets, I pull out sharpened pencils, red apples, green gloves. From out of nowhere, a brisk wind begins to tousle my hair. My pace quickens as, from just around a curve in the road, comes the faintest fragrance of wood smoke and hot cocoa - cinnamon and fir.
Where only a few hours ago I sat with my wings folded, drenched in the languidness of August, I now feel the awakening of my imagination like the first day of school.
I want to run straight into the arms of autumn with a grin on my face.
Anyone wish to join me?
"Lord it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they should be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine."
Rainer Maria Rilke
