The Four Seasons Chapter Four ~ Autumn (The Fall) Holds Firm Her Ground

A solicitor's lunch time visit to his departed client's home in Lytham Lancashire North-West England September 2009

Part II

Lytham St Annes, The Fylde

A commuter drive

along the Coastal Road

in the early morning

following …

Leaves across the pavement

carry the gusts,

the train of Autumn’s skirt

brushing the well-kept kerbs;

her fiery complexion

the portent of winds,

crimson sunsets

the myriad colours of

flaming arrows,

the furnace that burns

the summer up,

and whose embers die

in the first deep frosts

of her cold companion

Winter

where Café Nero’s

pavement seating

hints at an era

of bygone Edwardian gentility.

Fraser, besuited, coffee latte,

or is it cappuccino today,

gorgeous emerald burgundy fountain pen

working the Guardian crossword,

the autumnal cigarette beneath

the rippling sunbrella

before the light extinguished by winter,

and all retreat inside to the leather chairs;

The Times, The Mail and Daily Express,

Americano, Latte, Cappuccino

a toasted Panotoné too.

Old World Lancashire

holds firm its ground …

Classic or Chocolate, Sir?

Just classic please.

And jam and butter Sir?

No just butter today I think,

thank you.

Fraser pauses

as he shields the flame

inside his Mack

en route back to the 
grand new Jaguar


he prefers to park 
discreetly

round the corner.

Part III

The lunch hour bustles,

the pavements heave;

a Paris Boulevard

with coffee cups steaming

and people teaming.

Negotiate the market stalls.

Don’t walk through the

grocery displays;

besuited,

green ‘estate’ file firmly clasped,

Are the keys in my pocket?

A hundred thoughts

fly around my head

in close formation.

Will we succeed?

Will we hold this department together

and defeat the seismic attempts

to destroy a Practice?

Yes. We will!

Defeat is not in my

vocabulary.

An army that loses battles

can still win wars!

The town is heaving and,

yes,

teaming with September tourists

catching that brief interlude

as Grace of Summer

confides with Fire of Autumn

and conspires against Dread Winter

to hold her off another day,

to touch the paving stones

and warm the seats,

to rustle the slowly turning leaves,

to trail her skirts

and with a flurry

send leaves a whirl,

and all the flags billowing,

and bunting fluttering.

Grace of Summer … …

… … trails her skirts

and with a flurry

sends leaves a whirl,

and all the flags billowing,

and bunting fluttering.

Part IV


19 Warton Street

looks warm and inviting,

burgundy velvet drapes

in an architect’s bay window;

the single yale stiffly turns,

a house now idle,

deceased,

no movement since that

final visit,

and a buyer’s market

resting on Recession

and coldness in the bricks

around the lifeless hearth.

Grace gives warmth

to pin-striped shoulders,

as Autumn tiptoes merrily

beside me

swirling her skirts

about my feet

and then I enter.

I detest this part. . .

that shocks me back

to Windsor Street

half a century earlier

Grandma’s house forever warm,

but on that evil morn,

standing behind Dad,

as I had never known

that house before;

and now once again

I stare cold Winter

blue in her face!

And brace myself against

Winter’s favourite bedmate. . .

. . . Death!

Grace and Autumn pause outside,

there is cold here

and with it, demise;

a hint of happier times

a Great War portrait, crooked

knocked, no doubt, by attendees on exit,

but now straight. . .

‘that’s better – he is now respected,

an officer and a gentleman again!’

And somehow by that simple gesture

the house is on an even keel again.

Grace peers in and alights upon the frame

the smile in young eyes clearly visible,

and briefly Winter retreats

but then precedes me

and grows colder

with each room I enter.

The stairs are dark,

the disarray apparent;

hasty departure. . .

paramedics;

or was it already too late

and just Mr. Billington

the Undertaker?

Visions of a bygone age,

hints of a fictional seaside town

another Fraser this time,

a Jones the butcher,

Hodges the grocer,

Pike the clerk

and Mrs Fox;

and was that really Elizabeth?

Her bedroom

is dark and cold,

ice-like.

Autumn rattles the loose window panes. . .

the air is dank and musty,

the odour unpleasant. . .

a hint of things to come

for every one of us

without exception;

a heavy sigh

a question perplexing,

the green file now the

only representative of a life lived

and now departed.

The task is done;

the junk mail now on the

dusty kitchen table;

toasted crumbs from a previous age

catch my sleeve

clinging to the ring mark

of that last cup of tea,

… … a brief glance back

a frown - as Winter strikes my back.

She relishes my anger.

And then into Grace

warm and embracing

Autumn tiptoeing

and laughing,

her orange and yellow

skirts about my feet again,

with merriment making.

And in hasty liaison

on this cold and blustery

door step we all agree …

Winter has outstayed her welcome;

so she can stay in that lifeless shell

a few days longer!

The Yale stiffly clicks in disorderly agreement,

our retreat to the pavement

closing the garden gate behind us.

Meanwhile we will walk back up the

High street

and chat to passers-by.

Inner thoughts that belie the smile

the confidence, the ‘hale fellow well met’.

Come on Marshall. Shoulders back.

Brace yourself up. No slouching there.

Rejoice in life

Don't let your work

get you down.

That’s better.

That’s the man.

Step lively there!

My jagged thoughts race on.

Echoes of a parade square

a lifetime ago

and Mr Welsh, the Warrant Officer,

pace stick gleaming, clipped heels

that made us brace ourselves,

to the Colours

and we actually marched

with pride and joy.

Ah Mr. Marshall.

About my Will.

I need to make some changes again.

Can I drop them in at Park Street?

Ah good. Thank you.

There’s no rush.

But I leave for the States

day after tomorrow,

so can we execute in the morning,

say 9.30am?

I’m an early riser, you see,

and will be in the road

so it’ll be convenient.

Grace warms my back

and encourages my response,

my quiet smile …

Jan in Preston

will confirm the appointment

when I get back.

Next Monday, 18 January 2021 - 19 Warton Street completed : And Return to the Office

And in hasty liaison

on this cold and blustery

door step we all agree …

Winter has outstayed her welcome;

so she can stay in that lifeless shell

a few days longer!

11 January 2021
All Rights Reserved

© Kenneth Thomas Webb 2021