The year as a woman

I managed a walk this morning for the first time in several weeks, as with others I have thousands to do and hundreds to do it in. But this morning was special, for it is now autumn and autumn is my favourite time of year.

For me the photo of the lamp adorned with webs heavy with dew says, morning mist. The estuary, its flats decorated in swirls of mud and sand that lead into a distant nowhere, say autumn morning.

This is the time of year when mornings have a chill to them but by the time the world is awake and about its business, the promise of warmth to come is in the air. Come midday that warmth is welcome, by mid-afternoon it is once again bordering on the oppressive. But that oppression is short lived, for evening brings a sharp reminder that we are closer now to winter than to spring and doors and windows can be closed against the age old fears and dark of night.

Night means home and hearth, perhaps a fire to take the chill away, a hot drink, a welcome supper taken perched on your knee in your favourite chair. Then drowsy peace and bed, bed is once again a welcoming place, no more airless heat and sweaty twists and turns, now it is a safe, warm and comforting place, a place of womb like security.

Autumn reminds me of a woman beautiful in maturity. Gone is the spring of embarrassed adolescence when play was becoming less important and strange things began to stir. Gone is the early summer of teenage angst and rebellion when she was discovering her affect on the opposite sex. Gone is the full heat of summer when she was young and ruled by passion.

During these periods of her life the terms used to describe her passed through: cute, pretty, attractive and lovely…

Now she is in the fullness of her beauty, now she is secure and confident, poised and elegant. When she was a young and lovely woman and she entered a room, the chattering would increase, an odd wolf-whistle might be heard and men would murmur and nudge one another. Now, now when she enters a room there is a sudden hush, if you listen hard you might hear an intake of breath, a whispered sigh.

There is more to come in her life, she will become: handsome, fragrant, there will be snow in abundance later, but even a snow-clad landscape has an austere and remote beauty.

But, for now she is enjoying all that she has become, all that her early life has laid before her.

Yes, the year is a woman and at this time in her life the only superlative that does her justice is, beautiful.

 

NOTE: It has been put to be by a well known ‘smarty-pants’ currently resident here, that beautiful is not a superlative, the superlative would be ‘most beautiful’ – cheeky devil quoted the Oxford English at me.

However, I would argue that beautiful can be used as a superlative in its own right and I claim ‘the right’ to be creative with my use of the word.

I will check further, in the meantime I would appreciate opinions as long as they agree with mine.