“Strange face, with your eyes
So pale and sincere
Underneath you know well
You have nothing to fear
For the dreams that came to you when so young
Told of a life
Where spring is sprung”
Nick Drake, ‘Cello Song, 1969
Dappled morning light hits the bookshelf. Illuminating the titles of those tales I insist will one day be read. On days when the sun shines brighter than the streetlights and sand sticks to sunscreen on the inside of my toes. I am reminded that the seasons are shifting beneath my feet, as the calendar moves like a blur before my very eyes.
Excitement brims as unstoppable imaginings of days in the park, weekends by the sea, and endless evenings, fill the head. More importantly than that, we are re-entering public holiday territory. Where weeks become shorter and nights become longer. Footy of most persuasions is coming to its pointy conclusion. Celebration is the word of the hour.
The thin winter air dissipates and spring captures our attention like a lens flare in a Hollywood blockbuster. Its existence may not be instantly consequential, but its arrival begs for recognition. Suddenly someone has slid the sepia filter behind my retina and my skin has become slightly thicker. The agitations of winter are replaced by a renewed optimism brought on by waking up with the rising sun. The night air smells different, dank. The smell of not needing to pack a jumper with me for the evening.
The selection of sunglasses becomes a daily quandary yet again. So too does the decision to bare my knees, regardless of their likeness to ‘Glacier White’ on the Dulux colour chart. How about shoes, do I dare to get the dogs out?
Though, as the songbirds wake me up before my alarm, pollen lodges itself into my sinuses and the magpies lunge for my eyeballs. I debate with myself whether there was really such a hurry to leave winter in our wake. That is when the wise sage talking to themselves on the tram, reminds me of the cyclical nature of seasons. For in nine months time, those fires will be stoked and hands thrust deep back into pockets. So, now is the time to bury the hot water bottle and itchy scarves back into the far reaches of the wardrobe. See you next year my faithful friends.
Fretting over the frightening speed at which the year seems to have gone is not a new phenomenon and not one I am alone in experiencing. Holding onto winter as a naive act of defiance against the passing of time is beginning to appear more and more unproductive. Instead, I shall allow the shocks of pink streaking across the muddy evening sky to draw tears to my eye. A smile beams across my face as I recall that in spring, friends are more easily persuaded to embark on adventures and dining outside is the default.
Now the year is closer to its conclusion than its beginning. Summer plans are already sucking funds from the stockpile squirrelled away in the dead of winter. Change grips the hand of Father Time as they plant their boots into my back and I tumble into September. Whether I am ready or not.
Those hearty soups have become crispy salads.
Farewell, winter.
Hello, late bedtimes.
