These lime seeds flutter down on to our hedge and garden all the time now. Having tried to describe their aerodynamic structure in words, I get some pleasure from drawing one, a little shrivelled though it is, in my notebook.
A steam train whistle comes to us on the wind. It originates with the single track line between Tunbridge Wells and Groombridge which was restored several years ago by a group of enthusiasts who run trains at weekends and on public holidays.
I meet a neighbour with a box full of old baby clothes. He is on his way to Oxfam. We talk about the pleasure of discarding things for there is no longer a use.
1 comment:
There's a distinct note of reflective September melancholy in these last posts, I feel. Interesting to hear of your 'contemplative disciplines'...
Re my essay comment. I had read something elsewhere about the essay form being revived in blogs, and how there were many intelligent, challenging ones being written, and I remembered that that had rather been my aim when I started, but somehow I feel a little that I've run out of steam, or that the impulse is rather being frittered. Never mind, I daresay it comes and goes...
Always good things to be found here though. How lucky to be able to here a steam whistle, I sometimes think I hear the ghost of one.
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