From the groin of this oak sprouts a holly tree.
In the Pantiles there is some sort of festival. A woman sings backed by a guitar and helped by a bank of amplifiers. The further away you are, the better it sounds. Up here on Mount Sion, a few, broken, muted notes drifting on the wind have a pleasing melancholy quality well suited to a Sunday afternoon.
Not Autumn yet surely but, in the gusts of wind this morning, dead or half dead leaves fly busily past the window. Fewer are loose than in Autumn; their moisture content is higher than that of Autumn leaves; they are heavier, yellow rather than brown, and they zoom through the air with more apparent purpose.
Those first yellow flying leaves of August seem to give an agreeable release of melancholy, like music in fragments.
Yes, melancholy seemed to be in the air yesterday, in the absence of those long, warm summer days. Did they exist outside the imagination?
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