Houses in Autumn

Seems that most of spring has been swept away with winter too. Plunged straight into summer. I don't mean the heat, though it has been unseasonably warm these last few days, but other elements such as the light and the echoes and the resonances of it all. The light is all pale and yellow, and the air tastes of asphalt and glass, cars and the late 1970s in RAF married quarter playgrounds. The sky, particularly when clear, seems vast and deep. An upside-down sea. I would like to distill the sky into some kind of wine.
Down on the beach -Andy and myself walked up to the Marina yesterday- there were the summer groups of BMX riders, breakdancers, musicians, families, drinkers, sunbathers and dogs. The horizon seemed to become kind of dulled. A haze beginning to obscure the distance. (I remember Brighton Beach ten years ago, the heat fog as I called it, reading H.P.Lovecraft on the beach whilst between jobs. Just turned 28. Yesterday. A lifetime ago, staring at the sea vanishing into a white void). Andy pointed out to me the amount of times I had to stop for a coffee, or a tea. Less, i think, for the drinks themselves, than for the inexplicable pleasure of stopping at the various scattered stalls to buy them.
Getting back last night. Strange being inside when it's still light outside.
An odd kind of... I don't know. Something in the air I suppose. A kind of nudging. I think it's a byproduct of turning 38. 40 seems to be a lot nearer now than it did a month ago... The passage of time. Chronos, that cruel but consistent god who catches up with us all. That nudging. Reminding me not to let these days slip by, as they do.
Slipping back though. Always easy with me. A generic memory. A collision of different years, but from that one place. Autumn of course. Autumn is a place, not only a season. How can I be nostalgic for autumn at the beginnings of summer? Not really nostalgic. Just aware of it. Walking home through pools of shadows. Rustle of discarded leaves on rainy ground. That dream-like light. Opening the door of a house. Hall-light spilling into the blue twilight, and the house deepening.
Houses in autumn have so many more different levels.
Summer now. Back to the present.
Hold on. Summer?
This is only spring. Just. Just spring.
I have a problem, it seems, with linear time...