reflected, demolishing, mistaken

This time it is a reflection  in wet sand rather than a shadow which  takes over the frame.

Today I undo one of my favourite jobs. Taking down the beanpoles is a melancholy business just the opposite of erecting the frame for the beans to climb in the Spring. But I make up for the sense of destruction by bunching the eight foot bamboo poles and tying them together neatly to stack against a wall, ready and easy to access for reuse in the Spring.

One of the problems associated with posting daily on this blog is that I find myself looking closely at, if not staring, at people. And everyone knows that it's rude to stare. Sometimes people who I have described  here seem so familiar when I see them again, that I think that I must be on greeting, if not speaking, terms with them. Today  I pass a man with a grey moustache, and a pipe between his lips. For a moment I mistake him for the barman at The Grove Tavern, who has a similar moustache but to the best of my knowledge, no pipe.  Then I realize just in time that he is  someone I have seen puffing through The Grove, his pipe alight, and smoke rising from it like smoke from a steam locomotive. I suppose it wouldn't have mattered if I had greeted him, but there is something about his moustache which suggests that he might be affronted by a good afternoon from someone to whom he has not been introduced.