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Ode to a September morning

 



An early walk
, silent, wet and grey. My chocolate brown wellies wet   and shiny. Past sleepy cottages down into the freshly ploughed field, wet chocolate like wet wellies. A morning of white umbrellas of field mushrooms. Pheasants with their still unfinished plumage. On through meadowland to the style and the lane then into the woods with its secrets. Huge clumps of leathery brown speckled funghi. Across the wooden bridge and into the field. Red berries, blackberries, creamy white clover. Yellowing grass and the odd fleabane and a surprise carpet of what might be common bird's-foot trefoil. Stored away in the mind to be looked up in a book once home. Up through the style onto the seawall. The tide half in. Waders and gulls and other coastal birds greedily feeding at the water's edge. A lone blue and white fishing boat chugging home. Nothing but the cries of the birds as we head off away from society. A sudden flurry of gunfire from the ranges across the water tells us it is time to head home. Above the wood a single crow makes a majestic flight towards the sea then two, three, four and more fly out from the trees with their characteristic cawing and follow. Into the wood, all is quiet, just the soft sound of raindrops as it begins to rain. Then taken unawares we stumble across Charlie and his terrier. Friday is unsure of himself as he allows the little fellow to dominate him. We go out into the paddock where there is more space  and a friendship is formed. The dogs bound about while we chatter and finally say cheerio - they to the sea and we back to the pasture. We pass tractors ploughing and farrowing. All is change. Colour, mood, textures and season. Back up the lane to the garden, I gather ripe tomatoes and head indoors for a hot drink and treat myself to a piece of shortbread.

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