She bursts onto stage in a rich blaze of colour demanding our attention. She rustles her voluminous russet skirts over the mountains and hills and flings her arms wide, reaching out to the mightiest tree, the smallest bush.
Her dramatic sighs are the chilling winds that curl their tendrils around our necks and mercilessly pinch our nose and cheeks.
Her inhales shake the leaves from the trees, and her exhales frost the earth. Her very touch so awes the plants and flowers as to halt their growth.
Not content to 'go gently into that good night' she 'burns and raves at the close of day' with impassioned sunsets and immense starry nights.
In a huffy rage that her time has come she shows no compunctions in demanding all colour leave the stage when she can delay her departure no longer and takes her final bow. Taking with her the very flowers, autumn leaves and grasses that she bestowed on us, when she makes her final grandiose exit, leaving only the bleakest of bleached out, withered, brown canvasses behind.
Her head held high she smiles regally at calls for an encore but gathers in her skirts and swishes off stage as she relishes the notion that her absence will be felt all the more keenly for the stark contrast between what was and what is.
Autumn is a Diva.