My least favourite season is upon us-mists and mellow fruitfulness is ok in its way but it means picking lots of mellow apples from where Mr Fish has blown them, stripping the too many trees of their bounty and storing the product in the attic until the wife can process them. And through the mists we will struggle to sweep up leaves, steadily adding layers of fleece to our outdoor garments and as steadily shedding less of them indoors. Then it will be fires, log chopping, kindling gathering from amongst the snoozing dead in the graveyard next door, grate cleaning, coal heaving. We will know that the gales are waiting to pounce-first to strip the trees and then to howl through the bare branches like a thousand infuriated banshees. And the long dark cold wait until Spring. Melancholy is the mood
Hutton Haiku #23.
Autumn is
icumen in.
Wisely gone
cuckoo.
Wet leaves,
cold gales.
Sadly sing:
'Boo! Boo!'
