A buzzard perches on a rain-blacked branch devoid of leaves. I cannot help but notice the bird as I pass, both of us huddled against the chill, it is the very image of winter. Dark fingers reach for the sky as if in supplication, as if the trees are praying for the sun, while the earth is warmed by a blanket of fallen glory.
The hedgerows wear motley. Evergreens and those few bushes that stubbornly refuse to shed their leaves are interspersed by flashes of colour and emptiness. And then there are those that cling, golden, to autumn. They say that for everything there is a season… but it appears that not everything agrees when those seasons should begin and end.
In the garden, where the hostas retreated long ago, hiding from the frost beneath the dark earth of winter, the roses refuse to relinquish summer. I cannot help thinking…
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