Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness..

 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

Ode to Autumn by John Keats

Autumn in the garden...as yet the maples and liquidambor retain their green leaves and grape vines are still clinging to summers covering.

The beds are tucked in with the bright small flowers which have bid a sleepy farewell and red and golden stone fruits are just a sweet memory now. 

Soon most of our trees will be bare branched..but on this warm and gentle Sunday their green leaves hang there..content to linger on while ever crickets stay to sing their love songs underneath our windows.

The rain fell heavy and for days, filling up the water tanks and overflowing banks..a glad sight to the orchardists getting ready to harvest their apples..Granny Smiths all plump and round.

This morning I woke to find a soft fog laying over town and thought "Aha! We'll have a sunny day today." Sure enough..the grey blanket lifted to reveal blue skies and cottonwool clouds and blackbirds skipping cheerfully through the yard. 

And now I'm sitting here..warmed up from the rays on the windows..with the aroma of fresh plucked and brewed mint tea filling the room and a soft butter-yellow vanilla slice on the plate in front of me.

Yes, Mr Yeats..Autumn is indeed the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! .