Monday Outlook September 28

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 
While barrèd 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 swallows, 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

I think perhaps our swallows left us in our absence last week. There has been nary a sign. A shame, as I love to watch them on the wing, catching insects to fatten themselves up for their long journey.

There can be no doubt that Autumn has arrived this morning. It's a soft day: pearly pink this morning, with the sun lightly veiled by mist and a dampness about everything. Almost entirely still, the tide is out and all is quiet. The many birds straggling along the margins are mute for a change. There is just a single starling on the chimney pot, clicking, whirring and chattering away. I find myself longing for mist-shrouded valleys, for trees and russet colours and falling leaves,  and for the aromas of blackberries, pine and woodsmoke.

Soon, my poppet, soon.