Season of Mists..

With the hedgerows full to overflowing with the lusciousness of Autumn's harvest, it almost makes one wax lyrical. No-one put it better than 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-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.

Only part one of the poem 'To Autumn' shown here.

The birds which depend upon this bounty to get them through the hard times of winter, should be well supplied this year.