Appearances

My neighbour, Bridget, loves this time of year, when the leaves start to turn: all those autumn colours.  But when John Keats spoke of 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun, 

I don't think he was contemplating his rhubarb patch.  I mean, face it: have you ever seen such a flat and depressing sight in a garden?

I took this picture on Saturday 17 October, as the anniversary of Pippy's death drew close.  Feeling flat already, I didn't need this.  The veg plot looks like it has given up.  Which indeed it has, in a manner of thinking; the season of growth is over.  

But I must remind myself that appearances are deceptive.  According to one neighbour (who is old enough to know) the rhubarb patch is over sixty years old.  Really, it's just resting, drawing it's energy into the succulent roots.  Until the days grow warm again, it bides its time. As I must do, we all must do.  Who would have thought that there is wisdom in a flacid rhubarb plant?

And still, I got a few apples from the Cox tree (for non-natives, this is a variety called Cox's orange pippin. It's sweet and sharp - like an orange. A pippin is an apple grown from a pip.)

I made a pie.

The skin is often scabby and mottled, but, like these were, beautiful inside.  Nature's admonishment to shallow people, ha ha.

Oh, alright then, John. Lift us up.

To Autumn

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-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd 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-brimm'd their clammy cells.

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-reap'd 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.