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.