It is a rare gift to see the season descending on the English countryside. I am joyfully at the end of myself in this place. I have a deep sense of happiness, and a great longing for my wife. To share these subtly extravagant moments with her would be my greatest joy. And yet, it is my longing for her that somehow completes this scene.
The city center of Oxford is breathtaking. I am overcome with a sense of peace that I have rarely known. It is on mornings like this that I am struck with gratitude for the life that has been given to me, for a wife who understands my uncontrollable wanderlust, for a God so gracious in his mercy to even allow such a rich existence.
As I write this, I am sitting on the terrace of the Fuller’s Inn, at the head of the River Thames, listening to a four piece jazz ensemble and enjoying the pub’s finest fare. The sky is gray with bursts of sun every so often, warming the ancient stones along the riverbank.
It’s early Autumn in Oxford, and the leaves have not yet turned.
If one stands under a tree, the morning sun blinking through the leaves,
he might just catch the faintest hint of red peeking through,
a coy wink from a long-forgotten muse.
All of England hold its breath.
The students in their cable-knit sweaters,
the friars shuffling off to their cathedrals,
the sojourners, all neatly dotted on benches,
are waiting for Autumn to stir up a wind,
blowing up the skirt of this ancient countryside,
causing her to blush, ushering in the season.