Time to Reflect

The Sunday house lies silent still, in the half-light, a scattering of kitten toys litter the landing. Now I remember, somewhere in the wee small hours, Oscar was quite insistent it was playtime. No sign of him this morning though. BST (British Summer Time) has ended, my head tells me its late but the clock tells me its early. It will take a little while till we adjust to early darkness and this brief hour of morning light.

Two days of wind and rain; the still pools of the little burn are now a torrent of brown water, rushing pell-mell to the sea. No time for reflection. Suddenly, it’s downhill all the way to Christmas!

Flowers tattered and torn, seeds scattered on the wind. The frenetic harvesting has come to an end, the “tattie howking” is finished, produce safely stored in barns. Somewhere in the past, I can still recall when fields were filled with people lifting the potatoes. Now the sleek big, tractors and machinery do the work in no time at all. Already the land is prepared for new crops, turning the golden stubble in and furrowed sweet, brown earth covered in seagulls, hints at a different harvest. The last ingathering of flowers, a bouquet of seed heads, a monochrome study of understated beauty, the last fragrant sweet peas and cosmos.

Fungi pop up in various shades and form, autumn provision for the hardy foragers. No Fly Agaric this year to amuse me, though I’ve searched under the birch and pine trees. Late sunflowers coming into bloom just as the harshest of weather arrives…


The “neighbours”  were curious to know why someone was scrabbling around under the fallen trees, searching in the undergrowth, disturbing their reverie…

Autumn colour

Beech trees have appeared to be in a state of autumn since the wild winds in spring, scorched and scarred their leaves with salt spray. Now in the dying sun the leaves hang golden in the fading day. Sycamore lays down in red and orange. When the flowers fade and the garden is bereft of petals; suddenly each leaf becomes a flutter of colour.

Will it be a harsh winter?  Blackbird has stripped the hawthorn bare; chaffinch, wren, blue-tits, great-tits, goldfinch, dunnock, robin and sparrow have all returned to the garden. Squabbling among themselves, singing out their songs, establishing their territories. Oscar is a little bemused by it all, turning his attention from grassy tussocks and errant voles; now a silent, avid bird watcher. The kestrel watches too from his lofty lookout, while in the early darkness, a lone owl screeches from the beech trees that stand in silent watch around the garden.

Morning has dawned as I write, Oscar calls for breakfast, chickens must be fed and daily tasks undertaken. In the hedgerow the little birds seek food, prodding the lichen, searching the leaf axils, poking bark and berry. Time never stands still in the garden, the waning year marked  by subtle changes until suddenly another season. Even as the leaves fall, next years buds are on the twigs, biding their time, ’til light and warmth call them into being.

Thanks for stopping by today – enjoy the season’s changes.