I felt a flicker of resignation this morning, a kind of melancholy as I scuffed through a layer of fallen leaves on the way to let the chickens out.
The air was damp, oppressive, like a mantle of decay settling over the garden. Banished was the capricious spontaneity of September, when summer temperatures could still be found shuffled, like a grinning joker, into a pack of fresher autumnal days.
I rescued some dew laden chrysanthemums that were bent to the ground.
They’ve been sat on my desk all day, kindly drawing me into their restorative beauty.