In September

The last, gusty, beautiful beginning of the end

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I am never sure whether September is objectively the best month, or whether that’s just because it contains my birthday. Am I really so shallow that I favour the month in which I am celebrated and bestowed with gifts? I like to think not, but still… September. I think I should make my case. 

A week ago, I moved my lounge chair from the bottom of the garden, where it’s been skulking in the shade all summer, to the patio just outside the kitchen where it catches the sun. A month ago, we were sweltering and I couldn’t have done this. But now, already, the sun has lost its might. It is gentle, diffuse, a blessing as I sit and read, watching the leaves of my neighbour’s ash tree dapple over the pages. 

It is not possible every day. We’ve had rain, and sometimes, already, the cold drives me indoors. But most days, there is a gap in the clouds. The wind is rising, soft and questing, shuffling through my desiccated plants. Under its persuasion, I watched the foxgloves - such as they were this year - release their seeds, spritzing a cloud across the newly exposed soil. Sparrows cling to the euphorbia, picking out the seeds as they bounce in the breeze.