With the colours in the shop today and the fact I have been working on a new look book entitled 'Bountiful hedgerow' I feel inspired to share one of my favourite poems, a Keats classic describing the beauty of Autumn.
It truly is my favourite season, you can keep your zingy, zesty Spring bulbs and your fat, round sweet-smelling peonies - Autumn is the Season for me. The golden grasses, the soft silky seedheads and the colour, oh my the colour! From the changing leaves on the Horse chestnut tree on my lane to the chrysanths in every shade of russet through yellow to red, the colours are exquisite. It's as if nature is throwing every last morsel of beauty she has at us. She is saying, 'Take this, this will remind you of what I can do, this will keep you going until Spring, take this and do not forget me'.
Personally it is also the first chance I have had after an exceptionaly busy wedding season to reflect on what has been achieved. So many beautiful weddings and events, so many individually designed florals-all delicious.
It is the opportunity to curl up in front of the fire with the family and spend time reconnecting with those who have come second to so many weddings over the last few months and without whose continued support and understanding I couldn't continue to do this 'job' I love. Finally it is a chance to recharge the batteries before a busy Christmas season and more wedding planning.
I shall leave you with the poem which I feel best sums this up! Enjoy...
Ode To Autumn
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd 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'er-brimm'd 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-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd 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 cyder-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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.