Of Mists and Transformation

"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 leaves hanging on.

 

But, then the fog dispersed, leaving a rather damp bedraggled world behind. 

Et voila. Decorating finished. Transformation almost complete. A light, bright room.   Just waiting for replacement curtains and blinds to be finished.  I hardly recognise the room; well worth all the time, work and chaos.  No packing cases, everything stowed away and back to normal.  Whew! It's been a long  job.

 

Oh, and one more thing - I don't know if you remember but this time last year we had our willow tree pruned - this is what it looked like when it had had the chop.

This is what it looks like now - amazing what a difference a year can make.

That's it for now.

See you next week

same time, same place.

Elaine