There’s this phrase – probably borderline ‘old wives’ tale’ territory, that’s been on the periphery of my thoughts at a certain time of year for the past few years; “Summer’s last huraah”. It epitomises the Indian summer MKII or three when you’d conceded to the fact that we’re not likely to any more in the way of sun for the next few months. The dark, the cold, the drudge. A melancholy occurs after a few days of warmth in September, dare I say October. That is a time of reflection. Of harvest. Of resignment. That was almost exactly 6 months ago. As I walked home tonight, there was a biting wind (not as sharp as a few days ago mind) and a light dusting of snow. To all intents and purposes, a winter clime, but, it felt it like had turned a corner. Past tense. The long daggers of winter are back peddling. I think the here and now is Winters Last Hurrah. The antithesis. The nemesis. Hello world, with your big, fat, buds of nature. The circle of life is about to start again.
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