A Soft Day

A soft day, thank God!
The hills wear a shroud
Of silver cloud;
The web the spider weaves
Is a glittering net;
The woodland path is wet,
And the soaking earth smells sweet
Under my two bare feet,
And the rain drips,
Drips, drips, drips from the leaves.
Winifred M. Letts, 1913

Actually that's a rather romantic view of things today - there a fat, damp, warm mizzle hanging everywhere, certainly shroudlike. I bet they're basking in Dublin. We were going on the next stage of the walk, but visibility is pretty atrocious so yomping along cliffs seemed a bit foolish.
Instead I have been rushing through my list, ticking things off with gay abandon and almost catching up with myself.

Tonight Arthouse resumes - the first offering is Populaire, a French comedy - I'll report back.