"If you don't love things in particular, you cannot love the world, because the world doesn't exist except in individual things" Thomas Moore The ditches are a jumble of briars, a tangle of weeds, a mess of curling browning leaves. They cascade onto the lane, in the subdued light of early autumn. A heady scent draws you into the . . .
In Midsummer now brightest green and lush lasting only moments counting every one through one half shut eye land bathed in light still promising so many balmy days ahead . . .