Autumn’s here. It announces itself meekly and gradually, over the course of quiet days. Crisp wind. Falling leaves. Nourishing rain. The wind carries a ineffable loneliness. It is near the year’s end. Leaves of spring flee the branches, covering canopies in a wash of brown and burgundy. Crunching underfoot. A peaceful sound. Autumn is a time of peace. Of introspection. Reflection. Quietude and solitude. After the harsh vibrancy of summer, before the smothering loneliness of winter. On the border between two extremes. A temporary respite. Winter’s breath nevertheless stirs the wind. Cold and threatening. Demure and melancholy.
Autumn is the artist’s month.
Iestyn Tudor 