This was written one morning in 2010 while I watched the leaves dropping in the garden and Anne was busy in the house. It was written a long time before I had any idea of buying a boat, let alone one of that name!
I stand and watch the leaves drop off the autumn bush.
The damp morning is moved by the gentle breeze.
As the trees drip so too does the bush slowly drop its leaves.
Sometimes only one, sometimes several are dropped when the breeze brushes passed.
They are faded greens, pale golds and yellows, some curled up, others flat, almost fresh.
When the wind stills none drop and I watch wondering which will be next.
The bush is beautiful with the leaves . I want them to stop dropping. It seems such a waste as they die and fall, discarded by the bush as if it wants them no more.
Almost careless, as if in the leaves littered about it do not matter.
It seems cruel. What is the point in throwing all that away, the form, the masses of individuals, the unique goodness that they all hold?
The drizzle drips on and I can no more stop the next leaf falling than stem time.
The grass is gradually carpeted golden, the red bark of the bush begins to show, almost red as blood.
As I ponder I am reminded that the goodness does not fall. The bush does not carelessly throw away its leaves. The season turns and the bush takes back the goodness into itself.
That which had formed the new buds, had brought brilliance of spring green youth into the leaves knows the time and calls home the goodness.
The season turns, the leaves were made to fall, the bush lives on.
It may look dead, but I look on and know different.