That time of year

Autumn. Tiny red berries, carefully cupped in my four year old hand, running ahead on the long walk to school to pick them . Looking down on my hands in black fingerless gloves, wrapped around a mug of hot tomato soup at a bonfire party, the steam from the mug mingling with the fog of my breath. I lost those gloves at school and have had many pairs since, but never ones as warm or comfortable as the ones Nan made. Boys with  effigies of Guy Fawkes destined for the bonfire, chanting 'Penny for the Guy' hopefully outside the shops. Coming home from school with a free ticket to the firework display. Collecting leaves with my little boy and making a huge tree collage for the wall. Greatfields Park, wading through swathes of fallen leaves, crisp beneath my feet, and kicking them up in the air, flurries of russet and gold.  The one time I succeeded in catching a leaf as it fell from the tree, and making a wish. I wish I could remember if it came true.


This Autumn I am wishing  for country drives past beautiful golden, orange and red trees, my first walk through crisp leaves for years, shiny brown conkers on the ground and maybe one perfectly smooth one in my pocket. 'Helicopters' spinning down from sycamore trees. Fireworks, baked apples and hot soup. A toffee apple. Curtains closed early against the dark and chill, a warm fire, a blanket and hot chocolate with marshmallows. A new scarf on my knitting needles, and a pair of warm brushed cotton pyjamas. And before it gets too cold, planting some sweet pea seeds and bulbs in anticipation of the Spring.