The autumn leaves are beautiful even as they fall; perfect yellow from perfect green. Is that why they call this aging ‘the golden years’?
We sat in the orchard, my son and I. Picked out by the autumn sunlight the leaves were more beautiful than gold. They lay scattered on the ground like a pirate’s treasure hoard tipped from the chest, only fragile and ephemeral.
I have seen gold in the palaces and cathedrals of
The sweat of peasants stolen and immortalised in leaf on ceilings, and in angel
adorned feasting trays.
Wars have been fought and people killed to gain gold – a yellow metal less appealing than these scattered autumn leaves. What fools are men! The hair on my child’s head, gold shot through with red, is the best gold yet. Long may he live while I turn grey – age an injustice no gold can allay; our comfort rather to see our children play.