Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

John Keats wrote Ode to Autumn after an evening walk along the River Itchen near Winchester in September 1819.  Today we went for a walk along that same river, in the Winnall Moors.  However, in late Autumn the former floodplain that is now the moors is less mellow fruitfulness, and more the dying end of the growing season.  So, with apologies to Keats….

Season of mists and Sunday family walks,

Close bosom-friend of a media-free son;


Conspiring parents just want him to talk

About non-ipad things – and even to run;


Bend with age the moss’d and gnarled trees

As red leaves form a carpet at their feet;


And Autumn still shows us her colourful hues,

Though muted this late; grown discreet,


As we walk under the season’s last canopies,

The coming of Winter stills water and air,

Peace broken only by echo of leather on shoes.*


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(*Yes, I know technically one plays rugby in boots not shoes, but it wouldn’t have fit the rhyme scheme.)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

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