Beautiful morrrrrrrrrrning .....
3rd October 2024 (Thursday) 10.30 .... We have a cracker of an Autumn morning, and
I had a short walk down to Ferry Corner to take a few misty photos before the sun gets going, and lifts the mist. It's a lovely morning for walking.... and 'working'! I don't have 'plan' but can't go too far from Ivy because I'm waiting for the 'exercise pedals' to be delivered. Must 'go'... slight flap on; it's nearly morning coffee time!
16.00 I decided that we had to have a change of scene this afternoon, so wandered up to the seat at the 17th green, then to the Pony Field, and finally to the seat at the 3rd tee (Ladies). With the 'hurdy gurdy' being hard work over grass I didn't us it, I just took my time and enjoyed the warm sunshine. The golf course was busy, as you'd expect on a day like today. After blundering my way down from the Ladies third tee, I had a long rest on the seat outside the 'Thistle'. Now that I have photographs to play with, I'll make a cuppa.... and sort them out.
"To Autumn" by John Keats.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er- brimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all it's twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady they laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
