Autumn, a destitute season. I am flummoxed by the constant strain of the detachment of impartial floral escapism. The washing in and out of the tidal vermillion reds, golden and amber alerts of the vernacular of change and chance of the mature set leaves. A skilled departure.   The death of a Season, a Queensland winter, is the ‘icing’ on the cake. Soon the trunks will be breached and branches exposed, left naked and disoriented for the approaching tidal crescent of the winters interlocking numbing injections of a still blanket fall.  Rupture at the will  of human hands.  Winter,The enchantment of an innocent hue, Earth releasing the bitter cold. Nothing tastes sweet; however, things crisp and recoil and centre upon themselves the drenching of the grey furling winter scented mornings.

Numb fingers lace around hot coffee mugs with glancing blows, pulling towards an anchoring point, aching to acclimatise.

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