I did something yesterday that I haven’t done for a long time and no, I’m not referring to housework. That one is still on my agenda.

Yesterday, I picked up Keats in search of that ode about Autumn. Retirees will recognise the one about a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Younger folk will not, because they don’t study poetry anymore. Why, they wouldn’t even know what a Keat is. I believe it’s been replaced by SMS and twittering styles.

Anyhow, I found that poem about Autumn because I felt like waxing lyrical about this most perfect of seasons in Melbourne. We are fortunate in this glorious city to have four seasons which makes me and Vivaldi very happy indeed. My previous home was in Queensland which had only two seasons, hot and humid and less so.

In Melbourne, however, there are four seasons and although I don’t think so much of Summer and Winter, I know they won’t last forever. And then we will have Spring and my favourite, which is Autumn. It’s been a long time since I saw what the Americans aptly describe as Fall, because the trees around here are shedding their golden and burnished leaves.

When I gaze out of my large picture window and see those magnificent trees giving up their leaves so that they can be reborn in Spring (Good Grief, did I just write that?). You see, it has me in a thrall.

The days are cool but not too cool for strolling in the streets. The nights are brisk and make a doona so comforting. I prepare osso bucco in my slow cooker. T’is the season for thick soups. We enjoy hot chocolate in the evenings. The sun rises later and so do we.

Of course, I could have kept with the times and said Autumn is GR8 but somehow it doesn’t do it for me.