For everything there is a season.
Winter is a time the land rests from its giving, when it withdraws in contemplation. Spring and summer are times of labour, of productivity, autumn of harvesting, but in late autumn and winter the leaves fall, there’s an emptiness in the air.
It’s all still there, hidden down under the earth it remains alive, but trees stand empty, unadorned showing their strength.
Colours gust upon the wind invading the domains of water fowl.
Upstaged by bright vigor the yachts give way in turn to young adventurers.
Swaying and dancing trees doff their leaves, like light flowing garments to the wind’s embrace.
Like carved cathedral screens dark, woven, trace-work frames the waters.