19 April 2012
~I wrote this when I was 15 - We were focusing on descriptive language, so I came up with this. I couldn't use semicolons correctly for the life of me... And not much has changed!~
Trees stand; subtle. They rustle gently in the wind, unlocking an array of colours. Reds, golds, bronzes - all wildly accentuating the vast skyline in a celebrating collection of contrast. The tree-lined pavement sits greyly, cold against the warmth of the season but nevertheless at home. The well-trodden pavestones conform to daily tread, watching passers by with exited eyes sharp like pebbles. A floating leaf, wrinkled with age floats down to land with its autumn partner - the ground. A child plays; warm like cinnamon, wrapped in wool like melting chocolate. She tumbles into a heap with her friend, breathing laughter and leaves until all that is left is a rustling, heaving ball of merriness and crimsons. Benches line the park where a man sits. He is plum shaped, plum coloured, taking a bite out of his awaiting ham sandwich and snorting with inner pleasure. His clothes are untidy, his hair like a bramble bush, but loose buttons and stained collars fit in with this humble landscape. He is seven layers thick - jumper upon jumper upon jacket, as if all is not told with this man. He is keeping something from us. A thought. A wish. A past. Lost moments of being in love that never existed but hidden in a pocket or a fold of a jumper could maybe - just maybe - be a key to his untouched heart. Look; a squirrel. Climbing down a tree. It’s coat is still slick but it’s tail protrudes; bushy. He tip-toes down the bark silently with a hungry stare. This animal is not out for fun - just for the comfort of having a full pantry to keep his family going. He leaps onto a mouldy bench. His movements are quick. He senses a deal, but he must be careful. He dashes across the arm of the bench and freezes as if he is invisible. It is too late… The plum man has noticed. Nevertheless, a kind heart kindles a kind heart - and with a smile, bread is exchanged. The squirrel blinks gratefully, and dashes off until all that is seen is a red flash amongst the amber treetops. Above the trees inanimate clouds lay, flatly painted against their pink-blue canvas. These are the brush strokes of a sweetly kept secret - a lovers secret. A secret waiting to unlock a new time. A new commitment. A new joyous occasion of white… and with this, a new season is in waiting. But for now, life stays wrapped up in its brown paper parcel. Autumn is the keeper. Winter is the secret. An old lady sits by the duck pond - stirs slightly. She ponders at the past, she ponders at the present, and awaits her journey of white. She was Autumn born, and this is her secret, only displayed in her weather-worn attire. She glances over at a man, wise eyed. He is holding a half-eaten sandwich, as she watches him wipe his mouth with his torn sleeves. She notices a certain hidden something about him under his worn, ragged clothes. The old lady’s mouth curls into a faint smile - she knows what he yearns for, she knows his secret. Autumn is the silent season. Autumn keeps us warm. Autumn holds secrets and never tells. As every weary leaf falls to rest its tired head, silently a secret falls too.
An Autumn Landscape • Opuss № I