November

John Clare is as good on November as he is on the other months, but I have a specific poem in mind for this month.   So here is:

NOVEMBER
by R.W. Dixon

The feathers of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
   Above the swelling stream ;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty now the rushes,
   And wild the clouded gleam.


The thistle now is older,
His stalk begins to moulder,
   His head is white as snow ;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet's song is rarer,
   The robin pipeth now.

A lovely evocation that will become truer and truer as the month goes on.
Its a grey and rainy day today.  Captain B has been out helping the Duke of Burgundy (the butterfly, we don't have any aristocratic friends) by toiling away with the working party improving the woodland terrain.  And Maggie and I went out on some calls and then we shopped.  Lots of difficult driving, but a nice morning.  I was exhausted  when I got back - lunched on crisps and yoghurt and fell asleep.
Dinner at Jackie's tonight.