I thought that over the next few days I would do a little series of posts about exploring November through the five senses. I am going to start with sight...
One of the things I love about November is how things change and shift almost imperceptibly day by day, and then suddenly you blink and realise just how much things have changed. For example, every morning, I throw open our bedroom windows to let in plenty of air, and love to look at the tangle of trees outside. A few weeks ago, the leaves had turned brilliant shades of yellow and gold, but were still on the trees, almost as though they were a feather boa thrown around the shoulders of a twenties starlet. This morning, the branches are almost bear, and just one or two leaves cling on, defiantly.
I can more or less tell where I am in town by the leaves on the floor. The path to my front door is carpeted in acidy coloured hornbeam leaves, while I step off of the bus into a soft mound of golden oak leaves. If the scuffling scrunching noise as I walk comes from sycamore leaves, then I must be walking over the bridge.
One of my favourite sites in the morning is spiders webs, bejewelled with dew and glistening in the early morning haze.
Last week, dear Carl had some time off work, and every evening I came home to our front window being all aglow with candlelight. Candles and autumn leaves, the colour of November. Bare branches stark against the sky, but fuzzy through a fine haze of mizzle. A bowl of satsumas. The first patches of frosty grass in the morning, looking for all the world as though if you nibbled it, it would taste of peppermint creams.