Saturday, 26 September 2015

Irish Mist

A wither of mist has threaded its vaporous fingers through the pine trees at the bottom of the garden tonight and I've opened the bedroom windows to invite it in. The problem with mist is that when it's up close you can't really see it swirling about so I can't tell if it has accepted my kind invitation, though there is a distinctly damp savour to the air, the pepper of decomposing leaves perhaps, and it pleases me, indicating that summer is definitely gone and autumn is flexing her muscles.

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