Chasing Autumn – A teleologic impression in number of senses.

The leaves underfoot crackled like sparks as I walked, collapsing and crumpling against the gravel and concrete. The skeletons of former leaves line the shoulders of my side-street. They are curled, a natural forerunner of how plastic looks retracting from flame – almost frozen, the image is stretched out as wide as the season. On turning the corner the breeze pulled the last of grip the leaves yet had to their ephemeral home. In death they descend gently breaking the line of the road - yellow, brown, red over blackened grey. Their ascension, though it looks to us as falling, brings them to their final rest. The bodies pull inward like with an introversion that holds their edges in like a straight-jacket – and pulls further, tighter till they form themselves as a coil or shell. The road becomes a beach of overcast grey and golden sands – no water, no stream but the warm wind. I am a stone who realises nothing but place – the trees on either side seem to form the hollow for the scene and I sense nothing but the space between. Heraclitus whispers softly “It is in changing that things find repose. And I step twice in the rivers before me.
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The leaves underfoot crackle like sparks as I walk, and I am stepping, stepping and ever-chasing autumn.