No shyness here as death now glows
with autumn colour.
Much Keatsian mellow fruitfulness
as winter solstice nears
and Wordsworth’s backyard is at its loveliest.
Nature’s blanket
of acid-green mossiness
covers the path and the damp fallen branches.
The ancient dry stone walls all grey and tilting
And look ….
The lovely lake-face now breeze-stippled.
Amber bracken petrified to a crisp
and woody heather, dark-green and flowerless.
Icy falls spill over time-worn rocks
and froth with gathering speed.
Nests now dry and empty, birdless.
Underfoot the skittish blue-green slate
just a little treacherous.
And a zillion crushed and blunted pine needles
trodden flat.
Chill descends as afternoon’s
last sunlight colours the far-off vapour trail
with bright orange reflection.
The man in the moon now makes his entrance
as a full, round face beams down
and is seemingly pleased.
Autumn Compote
4 pears
A few plums
Stick of cinammon, allspice, nutmeg
Honey
Prepare the pears removing peel etc.
And cut into halves.
Stone the plums
Put everything in small saucepan with lid
And simmer very gently for about 20 mins.
By which time there will be lots of lovely juices
Serve with Greek yogurt
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