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Showing posts from November, 2015

A World of Glass, Sparkling and Motionless . . .

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"Warm, orange glow in the afternoon.  The sigh of my feet in the frosted night grass.  Wrap my coat closer, wrap myself into the ground, fold myself into the earth.  As night descends I can hear the shiftless hunting of voles, shrews and mice in the hedge.  And spangled is the only word for this starry night of seeping cold." ~ from Meadowland by John Lewis Stempel - 30 November.



"It was a world of glass, sparkling and motionless.  Vapours had frozen all over the trees and transformed them into confections of sugar.  Everything was rigid, locked-up and sealed, and when we breathed the air it smelt like needles and stabbed our nostrils and made us sneeze." ~ from Cider with Rosie, Laurie Lee. 





Winter is slowly sneaking up on us. Frosty mornings with white roofs and crystal toppings on the cars.  The fields in the distance pale and glistening; leaves rimed with white; pansies drooping in their pots;  the last of the summer flowers blackened and mushy.
I love the se…

When The North Wind Does Blow . . .

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You listen to the wind,
How it howls and rumbles round the house.
Wild and savage.
It whines and moans,
Wheedles its way through nooks and crannies,
Rattling doors and windows,
Lashing trees and tossing branches,
Blowing leaves into a flurry.
Look out of the window blurred with sheets of rain,
Sluicing down like a river.
Step out and it whips your hair into a frenzy.
Loud and elemental, exciting and scary,
Chasing black clouds swiftly across the sky.
You close your ears to its fury.
Night falls.
But sleep is impossible.
You wait,
'Til it blows itself out.
Then you notice the quiet.
The storm has passed.
You breathe a sigh of relief.
Close your eyes,
and sleep
comes
at
last . . .




Elaine

November is like Marmite - you either love it or hate it

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I used to be of the 'hate it' persuasion.  But now I have come to appreciate it a little more.  Still not my favourite month but I am trying to find the positives where I can.


Toasted crumpets for afternoon tea,  dripping with butter and golden honey. The gossamer threads of a spider's web. The number of different fungi to be found. Log fires and tartan blankets. Warm scarves and gloves. Knitted sweaters. Apple pies and crumbles. The smell of smoke drifting from chimneys. Crisp mornings and  scarlet sunrise. Fir cones and chrysanthemums. Thick socks and boots. Candles and firelight. The texture of November is immediately different.  I feel it.  I see it.  The wind is sharper and more determined: it rips the remaining leaves off the trees with a savage bite.  And, in the woods, the leaf matting underfoot is less vibrant - oranges paling to yellow, then dying into browns and blacks.  The rain, too, is colder.  it sticks leaves together, clogging to shoes, slimy, loathsome.  …

Of Mists and Transformation

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"Fog in November, trees have no heads,
Streams only sound, walls suddenly stop
Half-way up hills, the ghost of a man spreads
Dung on dead fields for next year's crop.
I cannot see my hand before my face,
My body does not seem to be my own,
The world becomes a far-off, foreign place,
People are strangers, houses silent, unknown."  -   Leonard Clark, Fog in November
Sunday was so lovely - sunny and warm.  I took my book and a cup of tea and sat on the bench at the top of the garden.  I held my face up to the sun, and saw the light shining through the leaves on the apple tree.  I stayed there a while soaking up the autumn warmth; not knowing that by the next day it would all change.

Fog; thick fog; all that day, and the next, and the next.  The sun tried desperately to break through - unsuccessfully.  As we walked, trees loomed out of the gloom; ghostly, with their branches like witches fingers clawing into the murk.  Everywhere dripping; leaves soggy under foot; just a few …