In ‘To Autumn‘ Keats referred to this time of the year as the ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’.
The chilly days of autumn have descended. I’m wrapping up in a scarf and gloves for my daily morning walk with the dog.
Yesterday, a mist invaded the woods, muting birdsong and muffling the weakening sun. The cobwebs on every shrub and branch were made visible by tiny jewels of dew.
It’s no wonder this time of the year brings with it a reputation for mystery and strange events.
Anything could push through the fine sparkling mist and demand parley.