The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness came along early this year. Near all that is palatable has been picked, the rest for the wasps and last-lingering butterflies.
The swifts left a couple of weeks ago. Unlike the swallows and martins, which make a performance of gathering together on the telegraph wires shouting: "we're off now, see you next year!" the swifts disappear like the dew in the morning. One day you realise you haven't seen them for a while and the wind's a little colder than it has been. It's all a little furtive and sad.
The onset of Autumn means that playtime is over and we get back to the illusion of everyday reality. Some of the early consequences of parts of that illusion have been keeping me away from the blogosphere this past few weeks. Apologies for neglecting you all yet again. Luckily, all the awful stuff is at work. Unluckily, it has a knack of following us home.
Ah well…
Friday the 13th
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What horrors await us today?
The realization that only 43 days are left in the Biden-Harris
administration.
Isn't that enough?
Other than that bit of...
3 days ago
Posts
3 comments:
I do grow quite nostalgic for the sharp definition of "proper" seasons...
Mention of Damsons helps! ;-)
You are forgiven for that delightful post.
Alas my damson donater has left for Cheltenham and - inexplicably- omitted to tell her successor of the arrangement : to give all surplus damsons to Pat.
damsons + gin = a very good time indeed.
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