Swallows Flown and August Blown

The swallows return each year to the walkway outside our back door.  We leave the nest there knowing that it’ll be occupied once more come the spring.

They raise two broods and we watch as their beaks appear over the edge, as they make their first tentative flights and then as they find their wings and revel in their power over the elements.

They’ve gone now and the summer is starting to fade.  The leaves are looking tired.  The apples are growing large on the trees.  The skies are grey.  There is a sense of things ending

I’m getting my autumn melancholy early.  Even though I know that summer’s not done I can feel it’s waning.  As with all good things I’m not ready for it to end.

Meanwhile I have to get a roof on the treehouse.  I have given myself until the end of October.  I have a choice between tiling it with oak shakes or saving those for the walls and persuading my friend John Letts to help me thatch it.

The folly grows more so.

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