Monday, 13 August 2012

Tybalt's death

Autumn came today, in the sorrowful winter song of a robin in Tyrrel's Wood; in the burst of a dozen migrant hawkers from a mess of bramble; in the thousand chirps of dark bush-crickets along the mint-fragrant rides of Lower Wood.

There was interest, yes, discovery: meadows cheerful with hoary ragwort, common fleabane and small skippers; huddles of muscled hornbeams with hairy St-John's-wort and wood spurge at their feet; and by a hedge the nano-constellation blooms of stone parsley.

Yet in the wings of the one swift over the pond today, in the southbound song of the swallows, came the autumn.


Tonight as I drove home, through the spring-summer-autumn rain of 2012, Prokofiev's taut, tribal Tybalt's death in my ears, a kingfisher crossed the road above me.

But autumn has come.

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