September and October went with a buzz of farm machinery, a whiff of cow dung and autumnal hues. The flowers on the grass verges shouted a last hoorah. Woe betide anyone who missed their united cry.
The children went back to school and the nights grew darker. The annual exchange for lighter mornings quickly evaporated as November caught up with us. It’s now dark before five o’clock.
Trump was elected President of the United States. But the world kept on turning. Gorgeous sunrises and sunsets made me happy to be alive, despite all the going-on in the big, bad world. There is still order and beauty in nature, while hatred and chaos take it in turns to be in the front saddle on the tandem of life, in between punctures.
The fields have been ripe with crops, the church laden with produce for Harvest Festival and tins upon tins were donated by village schoolchildren to the local Foodbank. There is a kind of Dickensian irony to it all.
The autumn months brought us the most wonderful light, with shadows creeping along the fields, quicksilver shapes moving and floating in time with the clouds overhead.
Even fields of turnips looked glossy and inviting, posing for pictures with style and grace. A stray branch in a hedgerow tree arched, obliging the photographer by creating a frame for the village in the morning light. And now it’s November and things are damp as ditchwater. Depressing, desolate and dull.