Saturday, 24 August 2013


I spent some time in the garden last night, watching butterflies be replaced by moths around the buddleia bush. I breathed deep the golden-nectar scented air, and marvelled at the softness of the dove grey sky. I wonder now if it was the last whisper of summer I saw disappear with the final glimmer of the day's light. 
I am working this weekend so my alarm barged into my consciousness and jangled my nerves at its usual early hour. Although light outside, the day had not yet the strength to reach through the window glass and, for the first time this year, I turned to artificial light to illuminate my morning. 
Beyond the window the garden was wet. Neighbouring roof tiles darkened by rain and gutters dripping gently. Drizzle hung thickly in the air. The damp earthy smell brought to mind the hints of autumn colour I saw in the bracken-floored woodlands through which I walked yesterday, and the dangling clutches of elder and rowan berries; midnight purple and scarlet.
I left the windows and back door open, as it was not cold; the season has not yet moved that far from summer. From some hidden leafy bough a robin was singing sweet high notes, a little hesitant as if unsure of his voice, but growing stronger as summer wanes.

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