A lone butterfly is the last drift of summer, almost mistaken for a leaf making its descent. The comfort of a scarf in the morning and hot chocolate at bedtime; rediscovered pleasures forgotten since the spring.
I don’t know what shoes to wear to walk to work – will it rain today? Will boots be too warm? Bursts of sunlight against granite skies, with golden branches swaying before they are undressed by the wind. Squirrels bounding through damp grass, racing up oak trees and burying peanuts in my garden. (Where did the peanuts come from?).
Sometimes I still collect conkers, though whether for the joy of pressing them from their prickled cases with my foot or the nostalgia of hunts long past I can’t say. Stowed on a windowsill, they soon lose their gloss.
The promise of slow-cooker stews, cosy evenings by the fire, and the buzz of a new term, in the rustle of the changing season and the increased pings of email notifications. Autumn.