A song of autumn . . .

 

The woods now grow silent . . . summer's tale is told.  Above their silver bark, the birches begin to wrap their heads in gold, as if . . . in their final hour they wish to look their best, going to their winter's rest dressed in their robes of glory . . .

Thin, graceful . . . they lean on the wind, stooping and swaying . . . on this day they are the loveliest things to behold . . . a sweet memory to take into the bitter days of cold and darkness . . . this shimmer of sun upon their golden leaves and silver bark . . . 

 

Cottages in the villages lay wreathed in the red shawls of the autumn creeper . . . warm and snug beneath their thatches, thick and neat.  Windows and walls draped they look like little old ladies snuggling down into their crimson blankets, as the cold dips in and out, playing upon their feet . . .

Autumn begins to tint the walls of the city, creepers flaming against a backdrop of weathered stone, steeped in the soft gold light of a warm September sun as it wanes . . .  leaves fluttering about the old grey walls, and yet . . . there is an autumn stillness in the air that one can almost touch.

This is the time to stand and listen to the bells as they ring out across the cathedral square, wafting through lovely old gateways and bouncing off the quiet beauty of noble buildings and cloistered lawns, resounding and echoing, drifting behind the ancient walls, tranquil . . . mellow, mature . . . 

 

Oh autumn song . . . thou lays a spell upon the heart . . . a song of enchantment, as your golden glory falls upon weathered wood and the mellow tiles of windows, roofs and walls . . .

England . . . England . . . autumn is one of your greatest charms . . . a precious jewel set by rivers and roads, hills and valleys, dales and downs . . .  creeping gold . . . weaving it's glorious colour upon thy cobbled streets and winding lanes.

Oh crimson vine and fading rose upon the cottage wall.  This is the best of all . . . this time of falling leaf and of fruit . . . blue smoke and pearly haze.  Peace, fulfilment . . . a song of autumn plays out upon these golden days. 

  

 And now begins my favourite time of year.  I love the autumn . . . the textures, colours, smells . . . they all sing the song of my mellow heart.  We don't get the truly vibrant colour over here that they have back home, but we do get colour.  We haven't the maples in abundance that they have back home so we only rarely have those deep scarlets and oranges.   

My hydrangea are now beginning to look very tired indeed.  I think next year I shall take a picture of them every day to catalogue the change, or maybe once a week.  I think that could be quite an interesting study. When I worked at the Manor, this was the time of year that the Mrs would have the Estate Manager go and cut armfuls of the autumn hydrangea for one of her floral arrangements which she always had in the big hallway downstairs.  The housekeeper would have to lay tarps all over the floor to catch the bits that went astray or that the Mrs rejected.  She would just throw them onto the floor and it was a lot easier for the housekeeper to clean up after she was done if there was a tarp in place.   I do admit the arrangment looked quite lovely when she was finished.  I have often thought of doing the same with some of mine, but then I think where would I put it and would it not look a bit pretentious in my little house . . .  probably so.  Besides I am afraid of what other little creatures might come in with them, lol.  I am so not a bug lover!

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *.And the sun took a step back

the leaves lulled themselves to sleep

and Autumn was awakened.

~Raquel Franco   •。★★ 。* 。 

 

In the English Kitchen today, a No Knead Quick and Easy Light Rye Bread.  You can literally have it on the table in less than two hours. No kidding!  And its delicious!

Have a beautiful Sunday.  Don't forget! 

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And I do too!