And the wind came......

And the wind came, like Septembers dawn always brings, and the plants and trees in its wake blackened, as they always did. . The air hung with the damp chill of autumn and the heathers remaining blooms were scattered in the scabious boldly holding their own, slightly battered and brown but resplendent all the same.

After the storm abaited, the sun shone as if awoken from a dream. She momentarily felt the excitement of autumn tones to come and then she remembered how the wind would rob the trees of their leaves soon before they could colour and fall. Autumn might show its face for but a blink of an eye, then the cruel storms of winter will arrive. Cruel winds, the payment for such a beautiful open low lying landscape. And she wept, salty tears, easily rivalling the salty wind, they stung her cheeks.

All the while the change was occurring, black burnt leaves, shrivelled by salt and wind clung on to their stems. Whilst the dreadful burning of foliage is a familiar sight in the Orkney climate, their appearence held their normal dread. The weather is changing, winter is coming.

And she walked home, slightly unfamiliar with the terrain, ambling purposefully towards the new cosy cottage. It's relative shelter welcomed after the brisk early morning walk. However, all the while she was dreading the dawn of this day, it brought the final goodbye. The wind increasing more gales forecast today only sought to hasten her steps.

The car started to travel along familiar tracks, verges battered by the storm looked sorry and sad. Even at this early hour the farmers were busy, a harvest to being home, the gales a stark warning of the weather to come. Crops must be hastily gathered, beasts catered for over the worst of it.  And nothing will stop it. Access to fields needed quickly before their saturation prevents the processes. Winter is coming, bring the prolonged rain rendering fields inaccessible and the wind to rob the leaves from their owners.
 

The turn down the track revealed the stripped branches of the elder and fushia's, how sad. Thier efforts in growing thwarted by gales, no doubt they will try again next year. The outer door of the old homestead opened with a resounding thud. Better care needed in such weather, she chastised herself for knwoing better. The howling winds thwarted door closing and wishing she had company she wrenched the door closed and wedged it with a large stone collected from the beach. 

And she wept.

Not the exertion, although the efforts had been great. She wept for the reality of life. She wept for the choices of open clear skies and silence (aside the wind). She wept for a life that might have been, but was never fruitful in this dwelling.

And she said goodbye to the homestead. She hailed farewell to the views, she hailed farewell to the coos. Each room door closed carefully and with love and purpose, each window lock checked. More storms forecast. Better safe than sorry. A peek in the byres revealed stark empty walls, chooks now rehomed no more of thier antics here. The byre door slid shut sullenly, unheard in the winds which were thwarting her escape.

No look back to the garden. Nothing to see here. No stroking of foliage, nor picking of blooms, no cuttings to take, no plants to dig up. Aside the Alchemila and the willow, nothing lives, a barren barren, bleak, might have been something perhaps, almost garden. Already gorged, half under water the soil saturated. Half burnt willow leaves bravely waved frantically in the wind and bid her a fond farewell. 

The final goodbye. The final submission. The final closing. Probsbly the first locking of doors of this house on her watch. She drove away heavy hearted.

Looking onwards she drove slowly,  barely a few miles towards a new home, and to the hope of happier times.