Prose: Rivulets of Pink
Autumn is the saddest season, but it can also be beautiful. It’s the time of the year when the earth seems to tilt on its axis and in one day, without much warning, the long golden sunshine takes a final deep breath of last year’s air and then plunges beneath the shadows of darkness and colder night. Now the lashing rains start to fall, and the days shrink in on themselves as the clocks go back one more hour. The flies and bright butterflies in the garden disappear, the flowers begin to fade, and the migrating birds head out to find a warmer climate. But the beautiful thing that occurs is the colour change. When hot days and cold nights mingle the chemicals in the trees and bushes produce a different pigmentation. The leaves convert starch to sugar to feed the hungry trees but the colder nights stop the chain of production, the sugar remains in the leaves and the green chlorophyll begins to decompose, creating a wonderful autumnal palate of dusty reds, turmeric yellows, burnt oranges and rustic browns to fill the branches of even the tallest trees. Eventually these now dead leaves, drunk on an overload of sugar and no longer with any cellular function start to drop and drip from their mother branches. Like silent tears the tree sheds its tattered coat and the fall begins.
There is a pain in the falling, in letting old things go so that scars might form over wounds and heal before the new can begin to grow. But there is a beauty in the farewell, despite the sadness and longing.
It is well and truly autumn now. I’m told that in North America the change in season appears to occur almost immediately in one momentous day, where, all of a sudden, the summer weather disappears and at some mysterious silent signal all the foliage changes colour and lets its outer layer fall to the earth below. What a day that must be, when, in one great moment the landscape changes its face, the light and heat recede, and huge piles of leaves gather in great mounds for dogs and children to play and dance in.
In the land of the long white cloud the change is more subtle, slower and there are many days where mother nature seems to tease us, hinting at the approaching wintery touch and we begin to think that the change is just about to occur and then at the last moment the older season pops its stubborn head up again and we remember that this is still May and the harshness of July and August are still many days ahead.
But now we are approaching winter and no one can deny that summer has long departed, and sister autumn has descended in all her magical and moody beauty. The parks and paths down by the river are at their most stunning at this time of the year. The hotter days in the summer when the grass is thick with hazy heat and pollen are nothing but a distant memory and at this moment the bite and sharp freshness of the frostier winter mornings are yet to arrive. It’s mostly cloudy right now and the slow-moving Waikato drifts gently downstream with the afternoon golden rays glinting off its watery surface. All the deciduous trees are showing off their best colours. The glorious yellow of the mature gingko trees, the red of the maple, the orange of the native oak, the leaning green pine and the weeping willow and the upward pointing poplar that is surrounded by smaller birch trees with their pale trunks. All around the sound of crunching bark and leaves underfoot can be heard and every now and then the wind gusts in suddenly, and the branches seem to whisper and rustle with excitement and elvish secrecy.
In our own garden most of the flowers have disappeared already. The purple of the lavender is one of the few that retains it striking colour and the young kõwhai in the front yard still lets its fledging flowers flutter in the breeze. The bird song is different at this time of year. It is more pronounced and more mournful and tender than it is in spring. The chirp and chime are absent in their notes and they seem more repetitive, almost argumentative between each other. There are pīwakawaka about, silver eyes, black birds, a rare tui, and the flashing brightness of goldfinches.
Yesterday dad harvested the apple tree and the cidery sweet smell of bucket loads of freshly picked and cooked apples filled the house as the late fruit came into its own. It was the final harvest before the long winter months arrive and the seeds will lie dormant beneath the frozen ground.
The most exciting thing in the garden however is the young cherry tree round the back side of the house. It is very young and thin, and its deep red leaves are just starting to fall from its twig like branches. But if you look closer, all along its outstretched branches there are tiny little white winter flowers just starting to bud. They are an innocent white with the faintest brushes of pink, rivulets of pink, that stream forth from its crimson centre. Even in the winter, in the darkness and colder days there shall yet be new growth and new life. Each season, each change, brings its own delights, its unique sounds and colours.
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Marcus Brooking is a student at Carey Baptist College.