Browns and Golds in the Village

Browns and Golds in the Village

Browns and Golds in the Village.

The 12th of November, and the evenings get darker and earlier as time moves towards the shortest day in the year.

Someway off yet though!

Here in the village the tasks are about putting nature to sleep or at least rest.

It will be some months till we see the signs of new life at the start of spring.

Apart from the coniferous trees and bushes, what foliage that are left have the mist stunning holds and browns.

Soon that will fall away, and those same trees and bushes will just be naked branches.


It’s the same cycle every year, but it’s always amazing for me.

Next to come will be the crisp morning frost’s where spring and summer dew once was.

Then it will be snow. Although the prettiest season, to be honest from a practical perspective, my least favourite.

What’s you favourite season?

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
John Keats

Browns and Golds in the Village

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