Grey Granite remembers her Dad often (annually) quoting W.H.Davies:
'Welcome to you rich Autumn days,
Ere comes the cold, leaf-picking wind;
When golden stooks are seen in fields
All standing arm-in-arm entwined;
And gallons of sweet cider seen
On trees in apples red and green.'
The gales of the last few days have brought autumn precipitously upon us. Geese honk in the evening skies, there are red berries on the hawthorns, leaves have been striped from exposed trees. The chestnuts deep in the Philorth woods are more sheltered but are yellowing and shedding conkers.
Yesterday the Wastart had taken on a seared autumn look with huge field mushrooms in the grass and a sudden dearth of flowers.
There was still a huge swell leaving Crag Ogston Pot a boiling cauldron
At the Mill Shore sea foam has blown over the rocks in rather a horrid wobbling mass. Rather more attractive blobs of foam detached themselves and blew inland. Rufus was much amused these but much perplexed by the impossibility of picking them up.
Some flotsam was less ephemeral....
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