Weekend

It rained pretty much through the weekend. When it let up a bit on Sunday, I walked to my cousin’s place, coat fastened (it was also cold) and umbrella in hand. Autumn has passed so the streets were sodden, full of bedraggled leaves. On the aspens lone catkins, on the sycamores browning fruits. A few autumnal leaves held on here and there. One tree resolutely held out, still a rich yellow, its leaves intact. The flowers of kerbside weeds had long died but the grasses soldiered on, their stalks touched pink. As did the vines, brilliantly green with the rain. In the gardens of the suburb, ubiquitous orange trees in fruit. Many a garden full of jonquils, calendula and roses. The faint perfume of the jonquils and roses. For a minute here and there the wet evening, the darkening landscape, the walkers seemed to belong to another century. Particularly when you pass elegant old houses called Inverness, Esperanza and Pevensey. At my cousin’s place, my niece is a warm, sweet bundle of joy. And my cousin herself is elegant in black and white wool, a tiny domestic goddess serving tea and freshly baked banana cake.

Picture sourced from flickr.