We’ve had some lovely autumn days, and the leaves on the trees and bushes and hedgerows have been splendid. It’s been quite warm, although here by the sea we have caught some sharp winds. It’s halfway through November and we haven’t had more than a light brush of frost on a couple of days.
Here is John Clare’s poem about autumn:
The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.