A Sense Of An Ending

There's a sense of finality to September. A hint, even on this sun-scorched island, that summer is coming to an end.  The swifts are back and we've had our first storm. Clouds sail gracefully across the sky like enormous cotton balls and, although the sun's rays feel as warm as a lover's kiss, its power is waning and, with that, comes a sense of relief. The beaches are mostly deserted, lifeguard stands  are empty now and there is, already, a feeling of neglect as seaweed gathers on the waterline and the beach vendors move to more profitable locales. It is too early to think of woollen hats and cold fingers. But the promise is there.

I have been absent from here for a while, making the most of the lazy, hazy days of August but I know it's time to lift my metaphorical socks up (it's still too warm to wear real ones) and look to the next few months. There is much that I want to share in these gentle autumn months: a few book reviews, a bit more about Malta - the unspoilt pretty Malta that I continue to seek - and the little things that make life special and worthwhile. A trip to  Tuscany might take place. The season for apple and cinnamon-scented candles is on the horizon and the thought of cosy evenings and fluffy fleece blankets makes me almost giddy with pleasure. In autumn there is renewal; a season of misty mornings and crispy evenings  that delights my soul. Because, unlike many, I am a creature of rain and storms and the north-west wind, that tosses the sea into a frenzy and howls and shrieks outside my bedroom window, is my best friend. The golden melancholy of autumn and the wildness of winter delight me in ways that make me want to speak in poetry if I could.  It is hard to find the right words in summer, when the air is heavy with so much more than heat and which has perfectly summed up by my dear friend Heather in her poem As Summer Slipped By. 

As I write this, the sun is golden outside my window. Occasionally it hides behind a cloud, plunging the room into greyness. I miss my boy, away camping with his Boy Scout troop, knowing, deep down, that this is just a foretaste of things to come. Of when he'll fly away, like the swifts, to make his own life. And what then? 'What then?' indeed. Perhaps it's time to think of  things I would like to do and how I would like to grow. Of new challenges to pursue. Perhaps it's time to think of slightly altering my path. There's a whole world out there and I've only experienced a portion of it. A sliver. But there is so much  more. So much muchness ripe for the picking.

Sometimes I can barely sleep, thinking of ways I can transform myself: from the clothes I wear to the books I read and the words I write. I feel the need to almost turn myself inside out. To reach into that secret place, where no one else is allowed, and think. About summer and that sense of an ending. About autumn and the possibility of new beginnings.