Friday, 18 September 2009

A last hurrah.





Summer is fading wrote Phillip Larkin in September 1959. Its fading here too fifty years on. The swallows have made their arrangements and left after a week of checking their plumage on the telephone line outside my window. At the front door this morning the air smells colder than yesterday.

The garden is hanging on to the colours of summer, the french beans and mange tout are refusing to give up hope, still producing enough to turn into soup. Me? I've started wearing cardigans and spinning thicker yarns.

7 comments:

Heather said...

I like the poem, but your prose is even more beautiful. Of all the turnings, autumn is my favorite, and your sentiments capture the subtle beginnings exactly.

Jacqui said...

all i can say after seeing the soup is feed me!

gorgeous photos as usual.

Cindy G said...

Your pictures are a photo-poem.

Here's one of my favorites:

The morns are meeker than they were—
The nuts are getting brown—
The berry's cheek is plumper—
The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf—
The field a scarlet gown—
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.

Emily Dickenson

Elise said...

Lovely writing - thank you

Lyn said...

what a lovely post! I too am in my cardies and starting to look longingly at my scarf!
The photos are beautiful, especially the ladybird!
Love
Lyn
xxx

inkberryblue said...

Beautiful.
Your photograph of the poppies is exquisite.

Karin said...

I miss the swallows, and their congregating on the wires, signaling the coming of fall. We don't seem to have them here where I am now...