Tis the last day of August . . . summer is beginning to wane. How did that happen? We did not notice the days passing . . . and now they are spent. April's promise has come true, against skies of blue, thickly fruited boughs are spread with russet, greens, reds and golds . . . and orchard air hums with the sound of fruit pickers, their laughter and song carrying out across field and furrow . . .
Tis the quite time for the birds. Down in the wood where shadows lie darkly under the heavy foliage of late summer . . . the hedgerows lay silent. Where now is the whitethroat . . . the blackcap . . . the warbler??
The lark, too . . . holds his peace. The skies seem lonely without his song.
Old plum trees hang with fruit . . . cracked plums alive with the hum and buzz of greedy wasps as they cluster thickly over their surface, drinking in all that they can hold . . . nectar sweet.
Apples turn ruby cheeked faces to the sun, whilst pears hang down . . . ripe and juicy on over-burdened branches.
The fields are ready, corn waits patiently for the threshers to come, cut and stacked it lays . . . soon to be not much more than stubble waiting for the heavy cut of the plough.
Upon the commons, moors and heath, carpets of heather . . . now pink and plum . . . mauve and lavender . . . white . . . spread out in vistas of untold beauty, beneath the gilded sky.
The light is somehow different now . . . whilst in the garden roses bud for the second time, their blooms the last hurrah of summer, as petals wilt and wither beneath the waning sun, leaving behind scarlet globes . . . hips, ripe and flushed . . . ready for prodding and greedy beaks. All too soon, the feasting will be done.
Tis that time of year . . . the hour of maturity . . . the season of fruit and fulfillment, of gathering and garnering . . .
Just around the corner now . . . beds are calling, singing plaintive wistful sounds, beckoning . . . tis almost time for the long cold sleep. Time to gather in . . . time to gather in . . .
All too soon it seems . . . the summer is waning . . . there is a distinctive feel in the air of impending autumn. You might as well try to hold it back as to try catch a moonbeam in your hand . . .
The only way I know of to truly capture summer for a time is to preserve it in a jar . . . that way you can enjoy small tastes of it . . . all . . . winter . . . long . . .
Happy Labour Day weekend to all of my North American friends. I am not sure about you, but I think this summer has just flown by. It is hard for me to believe that it is now moving rapidly on the wane. Somebody please slow it down! This year is disappearing far too quickly!
A thought to carry with you . . .
° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*Be glad of life,
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*Be glad of life,
because it gives you
the chance to love,
and to work, and to play,
and to look up at the stars.
~Henry Van Dyke•。★★ 。* 。
In The English Kitchen today . . . Crunchy Topped Maple Walnut Oatmeal Muffins. Scrumptious!
Have a great Saturday! So far its a dry one here! Might take advantage of that and go out and about! Whatever you get up to don't forget!
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And I do too!
