Saturday, November 29, 2008

Mists and mellow fruitfulness

There are bare branches everywhere I look in the garden today.* The orchard is particularly bleak, for everything there is deciduous. Only the grass – overgrown since we haven’t had a dry spell since September – holds any hint of green.

Winter freezes limbs;
skeletal, they reach to the sky
pleading for spring

The crows and blackbirds are having a fine time finishing off the apples. Once Samhain passes it is an unwritten lore that any harvest remaining is left for the wild animals. The birds eat the apples on the trees and slugs, snails, woodlice and earwigs eat the fallen ones. They in turn keep the toads and hedgepigs full of fat before they hibernate for the winter.

Out of death, life
Sudden flushes of warmth
hedgepigs out of sleep.

It’s a continual cycle that I never tire of. The last couple of mornings have brought mists to shroud the trees in sadness. How beautiful they are.

*Except when I look at the Holly bushes or the laurel hedge or wander the rhododendron path at the edge of the woods.


aims said...

A melancholy Jasfoup.

I suppose with the number of years you've put in - you have earned the right and the ability to be 'melancholy'.

The trees shrouded in mist tweaked my heart.

Leatherdykeuk said...

I just get maudlin at times ;)