autumn day - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
In this autumn day the foliage above could be my infinite dreams of scarlet and gold, playful in the soft light, colours ignited for all who care to see. They are the candles of the daylight, these trees that bring their art to our world, their branches taking root in the sky.
On this brilliant autumn day I find myself thinking of the spring, imagining that this warm sunshine has come to melt ice and snow. For a few moments I find myself believing it, thinking of the flowers that come, the brilliant petals of pink and gold, the flowers of pure white. Then I remember with a laugh... this is autumn and she has her own special ways to bring beauty. She gives by enlivening the senses, by making what could be dreary into the most bewitching of natural art. She gives by bringing a fresh start, feeding the soils and kissing the trees into their patient slumber. As the season deepens their graceful boughs will be the prettiest of charcoal sketches, drawing themselves tall, reflecting the light of a wintry sun.
Autumn days fall by as fast as the leaves from the trees. The sun rises and sets as if on fast-forward, as if there is some divine hurry to reach the winter. Though the sun is still bright, still brilliant in the sky, it is cooler even on the days that lack cloud. Soon every bough will be only brown and the gay colours they brought us will dim to a fading memory.
Autumn days wane toward the inevitable colder weather ahead, each nightfall coming sooner that the one before. The park is awash with the multi-coloured offerings of the trees and the commuters wrap their coats around themselves tighter instead of allowing them to flap in the breeze.
This autumn day has my sprits soaring beyond the colourful boughs above. The brilliant shafts of sunlight caress the carpet of reds and golds before me, laid out like a carpet for a royal. Each breath of the fresh air fills me a sense of life that almost makes me want to shout out loud, just to hear my voice echo amidst the trees - like a brave warrior of old. I've lived here so long that these rough-barked beauties are like loyal friends. I would hug them if there weren't so many of the neighbours about, sweeping leaves and walking their dogs. The dogs look so happy, like furry embodiments of smiles. They're so alive in the sunshine that I just want to run my hands through their fur while their tails wag in excitement. But I have a great deal to get done today, and if I work hard I'll get it all done and still have enough time left over for a movie and pizza with the girls.
I've read the poems from before the war. They tell of trees changing color, pumpkins and thanksgiving. It must have been nice back then. It sounds like a cosy life. Now an autumn day in the city means toxic rain coating you skin, all that gunk in the sky that's blocking out the sun comes down into your eyes and trickles into your pursed lips. There are no trees to shed, I don't know if they still have them somewhere out in the countryside. The wind rips right through the government issue jumpsuit and I feel as good as naked.
It was an autumn day. Far enough from summer to have lost the heat and not close enough to winter to have that bite of cold. The leaves had begun to fall and rain was in the forecast. On my way up the avenue I stepped on every crunchy brown leaf, savouring it, knowing after the rain they would be a soggy mess.
In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning — so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless, the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the dye.
From the pool of shadow that bathes my feet and nothing else, I know it is midday. But in this late fall the sun has lost its intensity, I can step out without fear of burning. Only a few weeks ago the streets would have been deserted at this time of day, but now the street vendors carry on selling and there is no shortage of customers.
The air is as crisp and sweet as one of the apples in the orchard I pass on the way to school. Of course I shouldn't know how good they are, but I do. There are a few trees in reach of the wooden post and rail fence and all I have to do is reach in nice and quick. The ground is wet underfoot and I know when I get in the front entrance my shoes are going to squeak right down over waxed corridor. The clouds aren't too threatening today, just a little grey, and the wind is starting to feel more like the blast you get from opening the refrigerator door than the summer breeze I've been used to these past few months.