The Season is changing

There was a definite nip in the air today, despite it being quite bright and sunny. DH said, 'you've decided summer is over' as I washed down the paddling pool and packed it away. He may have a point, although he was the one splitting logs for kindling!! So it looks like we are set to hunker down for the autumn. We brambled on Saturday and just in time too as the last jar of last year's jam got finished today. Luckily I had made a whole new batch on Saturday, with a new Blackberry and Apple Jam recipe that I had found, which should keep us going for another year - can't wait to try it out on some hot buttered toast. DH went foraging for mushrooms today and came back with a basket full, although I am not sure whether we will be brave enough to eat them. He did spend hours pouring over his mushroom book on his return and we are pretty certain they are OK . . . ! So with two days left of the summer holidays before Flopsy Bunny starts school I'm trying to remember how we filled our 6 weeks. It seemed such a long time to fill at the beginning, but as with most of life, it whizzed past really quickly. I must say that I am looking forward to having some structure in our lives again, although a little worried about the 8.50am deadline for Thursday morning!! Must set my alarm clock . . .

Waking up to mists this morning had DH reciting this poem and I thought you might like it to:

Ode to Autumn by John Keats
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-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed 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-reaped 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.