Black-Eyed Susans
Black-Eyed Susans

Life is funny. You know you need something; you set out to get it; you succeed. You’re happy, relieved, excited, nervous, anxious, but glad to be moving forward. And a week in, you’re flattened by doing it. I’ve been flattened for about six weeks now. Haven’t had the wherewithal, really, to do the things I love to do – painting, photography, singing, writing. Then a couple of weeks ago I picked up my paintbrushes. Last week, I started singing. This week I took this amazing walk in the country and I have to post about it.

A glimpse over the gate offers a lovely treat.
A glimpse over the gate offers a lovely treat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life moves on, doesn’t it. Autumn is kind of like that. It moves inexorably forward to the inevitable. Winter is definitely coming. There’s been frost and ice on the windscreen of the car in the morning. The air is brisk and the skies have been predictably grey.

 

He reigns over his empire in cloth of gold.
He reigns over his empire in cloth of gold.

Autumn in England is a slow process, taking months to paint the trees. A Canadian friend once told me that the first year she lived here, she insisted that they go for a walk to see the colours. Her husband thought she was nuts. He didn’t understand that in Canada, the colours change seemingly all at once, and then one day they are old and falling to the ground. You’ve missed them almost before you knew they were there.

At the crossroads the world is bathed in gold.
At the crossroads the world is bathed in gold.

 

 

Suddenly, last week, the colours changed seriously, as if they had been toying with us since September when the leaves began to change.

 

The Oaks became a rich brown gold shot through with yellow and green. The Birch began looking like dripping gold in the sunlight. The Beech and Poplars both turned, and the Ash and Maple.

 

 

Like a ragbag quilt.
Like a ragbag quilt.

Colour creates a crazy quilt that delights the eye wherever you might turn.

And one leaf, one little leaf, reminds me.

Like a beacon.
Like a beacon.
She stands tall as the garden around her begins to die off.
She stands tall as the garden around her begins to die off.

 

They glow with gold, this trio.
They glow with gold, this trio.
Water colour.
Water colour.

 

The Swans are back on the pond and there are tons of Ducks and a white Goose. The Owls cry out at night. The Pheasants race; although I’m relatively certain that neither bird is ever quite sure where he is racing too, only that he’s going faster than the other guy.

 

On the way home, I caught these two, comfortable and easy with each other.
On the way home, I caught these two, comfortable and easy with each other.

 

Life is good.

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