A perfect Indian Summer. Blue skies, 17º C mid-afternoon. Not quite summer anymore and not yet autumn with its frosty mornings and romantic fog.
Nature rewards us with her most spectacular display of the year. Her soft voice, carried by the gentlest of breezes, whispers “thank you for looking after me”. The rhythm of the days has changed. The sun is no longer merciless but kind. The fruits and nuts have been harvested except the ones, which we must leave as offerings to nature and wildlife.
The shady spot underneath the greengage tree, where we spent hot summer afternoons, sipping tea instead of wine and spending time in each other’s minds, is now an impatiently waiting bed for the falling leaves.
I dream that the happy clouds decorate the sky just to please me. This time next year, they could be replaced with pillars of dust from sand extraction, and the song of the birds could be drowned in the noise of the diggers – if the quarry plans in Bromham go ahead, this could be the last Indian Summer.