‘The days grew shorter and the moon shone bright and cold as a silver coin, cutting little grey shadows in the pine branches and telling all the forest creatures that summer really was at an end. Mist settled in the hollows like white breath and the children played at leapfrog with the rabbits until it was time for bed.’

– from Children of the Forest by Elsa Beskow

Autumn is a quiet month, when contemplation of simple pleasures can lead to a wander down paths of thought that might never have beckoned in daylight before, even during Summer’s enforced indolence.

This morning, for instance, I woke up thinking: Is atheism caused by a lack of imagination? And then, prompted by a conversation with my partner: Is belief in God caused by a lack of imagination?

These are thoughts that belong to 3am, that realm where notions of mortality and other small concerns assail the sleepless. But it seems they arise, apropos of nothing, on Autumn mornings too. 

I’m wearing trackie dacks, pyjama jacket, jumper and dressing gown, thick socks, stout slippers and a grim expression. Hopefully the heater will kick in before I lose the use of my fingers.

Despite the cold morning I took a turn around the grounds, as Jane Austen would have so elegantly put it, while vigorously shivering and snorting steam in not quite so elegant a fashion.

Inland frost was forecast last night but by the time I struggled out of bed, consumed a leisurely breakfast and shuffled from the house, all that remained of Mr Frost’s visit was the dampened ground.

High above the ridge, the sun’s warmth was muted by a thin layer of cloud. On dullish mornings such as this, bright shades of decidous trees stand in stark relief to the drab green background of eucalypts.

By ‘drab green’ I don’t mean that gum trees are dull, more that their colour tends towards an olive hue rather than the brighter greens of European trees. 

As far as leaf colour is concerned, the cherry tree’s is the most advanced. Its golden glow looks particularly spectacular just before night-fall, in stark contrast to the darkened sky.

I’m afraid, though, you’ll just have to settle for the picture that I took this morning; the photos taken early last night didn’t do it any justice at all. 

The Chinese Pistacio (Pistacia chinensis) provides a bright splash in the front garden. Its branches laden with warm amber leaves and bunches of small fruit, it appears quite festive.

It’s an attractive, compact tree (when pruned properly) and behaves itself so well that I’ve read it’s becoming increasingly popular as a street tree in cities. No doubt it’s a much healthier option for many urban dwellers than the dreaded London Plane Tree.

My favourite decidous specimen is the Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum). Glowing deep crimson, it conveys a cheery warmth on chilly mornings. I’d love to see a mass planting of it but for now I’m quite content with the one we’ve got.

I’m not sure why there are such wide variations of leaf colour on this tree, other than parts of it might be more shaded.

Its remaining light green leaves offer a sense that Spring is not too far away, however cool the day might be although, judging by their pink tinge, a complete transformation will take place in probably only a day or two.

Why is it that many European-Australians are so enamoured with deciduous trees? I can only guess that it’s because we’re hard-wired to prepare for the transition from a season of plenty to a long, cold Winter when fresh food will become increasingly scarce. Unerringly, the changing leaves signify that it’s time to make ready.

It’s probably also a link with our homeland or that of our forebears… or a need to see something other than eucalypts around us. Whatever the reason, I love everything about deciduous trees, even their stark bare limbs in Winter.

For those of us who struggle through Summer’s heat and look forward to the colder months, the changing leaf colours signal that the torrid season is finally at an end.

We can now rug up for long walks and enjoy hearty, slow-cooked meals. Then there are the hours sitting before the fire, planning Spring vegie plantings, reading, listening to the radio, watching telly. Or, in a more contemplative mood, musing on the nature of God or the god of Nature.

I, for one, am quietly rejoicing.