An Autumn Lost Somewhere

I walked with Em to Brighton Station, and then I went down the beach. I sat on the stones, drinking a cup of coffee from the Meeting Place. Foamy waves. Deep blue sky. A few wispy-white clouds. After the rain of earlier, it had cleared up, the sun came out and became warmer. It didn't -doesn't- feel like summer though.
A cold breeze blew from the sea. I wrapped my jacket around me. That sea looks autumnal I thought. I'm not sure what it was, something about the light striking the spindrift, the colour of that light.
Shadows on the waves, autumn on the breeze.
I've longed thought that there has been a lost autumn - an autumn that should have happened, but, for whatever reason, didn't. I'm not sure what should have happened in this lost autumn, something romantic and mysterious no doubt. Certain autumns have come close - 1993 and 1997 to name a couple - perhaps even as late as 2002.
I feel the absence of this lost autumn in my life though, a place somewhere where something should have happened but never did.
I watched the sea, read Thomas Ligotti's short story The Medusa and consoled myself with the fantasy that this lost autumn might be looking for me.
When it got too uncomfortable (shadows growing too long) to stay on the beach, I walked home along the boulevard, and despite the bright sun (dropping quickly) that blinded me, I could not be fooled into thinking it was a summer sun any more.