What I enjoy about autumn, I think, is the inevitability of winter. It lends to the season a sense of melancholy. Although the South African spring is in its temperament the same—an ever-changing impromptu of sun and cloud—the impending severity of summer makes it somehow less endearing.

It is now autumn in South Africa. There is to me no better season. Indeed, one of the earliest poems I composed—named after the season—was inspired by its simple beauty.

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