He didn’t care that the leaves had turned. All he cared about was his friend, missing. School had started. So he let himself drop among the russet, carmine and maroon leaves, and became one with Autumn.
A game of words to feast one’s senses. Just like the 13th century French word meaning reddish-brown, RUSSET brought us the homely feeling of a COARSE, homespun fabric. Plain, from the back country where rough skinned fruits with a tint of copper grow. Russet apples & pears.
I’ve been day dreaming of Russet pears. Their balmy aroma and textured skin paired with a surprisingly elegant neck. Creamy white flesh, a match for the rusty strikes on their skin. Soft and grainy, like a pear should be. Officially, Golden Russet Bosc. My childhood’s fruit.
I blink the brick wall away, my eyes intent on the piling of russet leaves. Their growing height sets my autumn days on fire. I hide from the gardener. ‘Set them alight today, Miss?’ He doesn’t know. Each evening I frolic in their reddish-brown crackle, a childhood whisper.
Do return for more autumn and dog – related posts. What do YOU like about Autumn?