178 DAYS OF AUTUMN 



cadences a flock of goldfinches passes over 

 towards the patch of thistledown in the 

 meadow. A chuckling, rattling sound; 

 the fieldfares and redwings have arrived 

 from Scandinavian forests. 



The path through the higher wood was 

 covered with leaves, and bordered by 

 bleached stalks of wild parsley and crumb- 

 ling sorrel spires. From the tall grasses the 

 sap went with summer, and like frail ghosts 

 they drooped over the pathway. The sun 

 was warm, as though it were celandine- 

 time. Upright and pallid under the trees, 

 and lit by the warm sunshine, the stalks 

 of the year's bluebells bore their skull-like 

 caps filled with their black shining seeds. 

 Even as the wind stirred the branches of 

 the trees the old loved shadow lacings 

 slipped and shuffled on the ground. The 

 wind sounded as in summer, the loveliest 

 goldy-brown brimmed the hollows under 

 the oaks. The phantoms of summer were 

 with me as I leant against a sapling, the 



