…and autumn would creep in, like a maniac, eye all aglow, leaving rainy traces on the sidewalk, its patched up coat all shades of falling leaves.
And it would smell of frankinscence, myrrh and cinnamon, coffee and cloves, with a dash of vanilla, just to put a damper on suspicion. And it would wear an unravelling scarf of multicolored threads, barely woven together, and it would look shabby yet genteel, in late Victorian way.
It would creep up from the shadows of summer, that’s still lingering there, not willing to go – just to fall at the moment the fall rises up from the ground.
Its hand would be quick, and the blow – sure, its knife colder than the winds of North. And the summer would fall, softly, to the ground, amid the grass and fallen foliage, eyes wide open, slightly bemused and surprised.
And the fall would step over it, and wiping the blade on the flowy light coloured dress of silk crepeline and organza, carry on.
Threadbare clothes morphing into stylish outfit, the fall would smile softly checking his reflection in the shop windows, and, adjusting latte-coloured fedora, proceed- just to get everything right – and ready for Nos Calan Gaeaf.
You wouldn’t know him if you saw him, this dapper looking guy, but he would be there. Coming round the corner, having coffee at your favorite spot. And he would salute you silently, almost mockingly, and you would know the summer’s gone.
He is cool about it. But then, he’s cool about everything.