All I Can Feel is September

September suffuses everything, is lain over roofs and the sea, the gulls and the pavements, the shop windows and the shoppers, and my desk at work. I breathe in and taste September, that cool promise of autumns stretching over unknown months till the frosty plunge into winter. Tastes of fields on the edge of town in late afternoon sun, of a strange kind of wine distilled from the consolations of rickety railway tracks and the sound of leaves crunched underfoot.
Even now, as I sit in my room, in the glowering pre-twilight uneasiness, it feels like September. The sound of cars in the distance sound miles away. Everything is stretched out and languorous, drifting and dreaming. I imagine sleeping a Victorian sleep in a room I have never seen, drift through afternoons in a house just round the corner from old autumns I have now lost.
Bridges and trees, and the cool of alleyways at night.
A parade of shops, fish'n'chips gothic, that hallway smell of brown and night, and the slip up stairs to televisoion shows and the cracked spine of paperback books that will never be finished.
Strongest in the sky, in that play of deep blue against the white and ceseless clouds. Skies like this almost have a voice, almost have a song. A song that stays in your head all day and you can't get rid of, but neither can you quite remember the tune either.
A V-shape of birds heading south.
Watch their wings crease and fold in the deepening sun.
Springtime, and all I can feel is September.