In the Bleak Midautumn

It is early October. Autumn has come. And I, of course, have been dreaming restlessly - while both awake and asleep - of the coming change of seasons. And while autumn is, indeed, upon us, nowhere in southern Georgia can we sense its presence. Mornings are balmy, evenings warm and calm. The full moon at the end of September was massive and bright, the colour of ripening pumpkins. We receive rain regularly during the week. We are in deep bayou. I even saw a lone wysteria bloom the other day amid a tangle of greenbriar vines and an unkempt mass of azaleas.

I have been playing songs of Christmas, anticipating the coming onslaught of holidays. Christmas songs never cease to delight me, to life me up. They are solemn, they are playful, they are silly. And in spite of the religious sentiment with which they are imbued, I receive their christian foundation like I would any other wishes of good tiding.

Among my favourite Christmas hymns is the poem “In the Bleak Midwinter”, by Christina Rosetti. It was written around 1872 but was not published until well after her death in 1904. I like the first stanza the most. It evokes a sublimely chilly yet stark wintry world:

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen
Snow on snow
Snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long ago