Yesterday morning, I stepped out of a warm, summer drenched house, into the sharpness of a different season. The sky was grey with a hint of mist and there was that undefinable scent of autumn in the air, a mix of wood smoke, bonfires and an underlying tang of decay, which carries with it a deep sense of sadness. The year is on the cusp as we move from the abundance of harvest to the long darkness of winter nights.
Today however the feel was very different. There was dampness yet also the cloyingness of the heat to come. In some ways the humidity reminded me of being in Jamaica, even though the grass was already littered with fallen leaves and the bushes full of ripening blackberries−a reminder that once again the weather will change.
As indeed will everything else in this strange year.
The one thing we can be sure of is that we can be sure of nothing.
Will we back to “normal” by Christmas, or will we be back in lockdown in September? Can schools open safely? Will people lose their jobs? Will the theatres re-open? When will I be able to see family and friends when and how I want?
In the meantime I am luxuriating in this August heat. Breathing in the smell of sun-dried laundry, the perfume of the last of sweet peas and loving the silkiness of lazy summer afternoons.