The autumnal opera opens with the air biting like a bitter lemon on dry lips and the air smelling of decaying leaves and wood smoke. A prima donna sings an aria that touches almost every leaf, painting them every shade of red, yellow and orange; each colour matching the notes of her song. This is then echoed by a chorus throughout the land, turning forests to fire with colour. At the same the daily rhythm goes from legato to staccato, as the day length gets shorter, which in turn makes the leaves fall like ghost notes as few hear the sound of them falling. The crunch underfoot as walk through them is like listening a plucked cello playing, which is at times drowned out by the violins mimicking the sounds of human traffic. Then as the final note is sung, trees stand bare, and the theatre empties till all is silent. Well at least until Jack Frost sings his melancholy blues next season.
© Fi S. J. Brown
Listening to the rain falling on autumnal leaves,
Like tears trickling down a clown’s tired cheek.
One a pulsating beat to dance long into the night,
The other ghost notes with no discernible pitch.
Watching the leaves turn from greens to reds,
Like traffic lights but few stop and wait a while.
One a sight of natural beauty for all the senses,
The other to warn of man made jungle dangers.
Seeing the leaves are individual shapes and sizes,
Like all human beings are all over Planet Earth.
One a mixture that few recognise the differences,
The other many want to change to look the same.
Look as well as listen, watch and see this autumn,
Like a child experiencing its magic for the first time.
One will awaken your senses to the whole world,
The other will bring you happiness outside and in.
© Fi S. J. Brown