seasons of mists
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.
I’ve been balefully watching the insanely massive congregations of magpies outside the window and wondering what they’re up to. That combined with wandering Spider season at this time of year is putting me on edge.
You just don’t know what might happen.
Oddly enough, though, while Frood and I were watching a Doctor Who scene, on DVD, in which a new companion goes through TARDIS shock, we both commented, practically simultaneously, that nobody would bat an eyelid at that sort of thing any more. Bigger on the inside than on the outside? Yeah, whatever. Has it got broadband, though?
Part of me thinks we’re becoming inured to mystery because we see it every day in glorious CGI. What a shame that would be.