We were driving to visit our son and his family after breakfast. A journey of around an hour and forty minutes by motorway.
![]() |
| End of the afternoon, 4.15pm. Time to go home. |
![]() |
| End of the afternoon, 4.15pm. Time to go home. |
| 15.05 November 30th 2012 |
![]() |
| Common redpoll |
| 15.06. Sun going down. |
| 16.15 Sunset |
| Frost. 11th November. Remembrance Sunday. |
| The maple before pruning. |
| Foggy morning November 15th |
| The last of the leaves in the mist. 15th November. |
| I have planted wallflowers for their colour next spring. |
| Tiger sitting one of his favourite "scratching posts". |
| Now is the time for the burning of the leaves, They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke Wandering slowly into the weeping mist. Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves! A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist. The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust: All the spices of June are a bitter reek, All the extravagant riches spent and mean. All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost. Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild Fingers of fire are making corruption clean. Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare, Time for the burning of days ended and done, Idle solace of things that have gone before, Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there: Let them go to the fire with never a look behind. That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more. They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour, And magical scents to a wondering memory bring; The same glory, to shine upon different eyes. Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours. Nothing is certain, only the certain spring. Laurence Binyon |
| Our neighbour's beautiful tree. |
| Last of my sunflowers |
| Morning mist 17th October |