Cheese I said!

.

Sunday Scribblings has come up with the single word Cheese this week. Mmm!

I was on the bus a few minutes ago and for the entire half-hour journey I had to endure the non-stop chatter of a couple of ladies sitting just behind me! ‘Well...’ I said, ‘so...’ she said, ‘then....’ I said, ‘and....’ she said.......” and so it went on mile after mile after mile!

Something they said reminded me about a recent visit to a cheese shop. The selection was sensational, the smell was intoxicating and the thought of tucking in made me dribble! A freshfaced young lady with pink cheeks and a toothy grim greeted me.
.

Hello she said, Hi I said. Cheese? she said, Please I said.

.

What’s this? I said. Brie she said. Looks tasty I said. It is she said. See this? she said. What’s that? I said. Stilton she said. Yum yum I said. Try some she said. Yes please I said.
.

The nice thing about this shop is that they insist you sample a bit before you buy. I never refuse!

'

Wow I said, that’s great I said. What this? I said Which one? she said, Oh that she said. It’s cheddar she said. Strong? I said, very she said.

Well, I tried a little bit and it was fantastic. When I bit it, it bit back! It was crumbly, creamy and made my mouth glow! The aftertaste lingered.

'
I’ll take some I said. How much? She said. That much I said. This much? She said. Perfect I said.

'

So, she cut it with a cheese wire, wrapped it in greaseproof paper, and took my money.

.

Thank you I said. Goodbye she said. Who’s next? she said.

Right now I’m tucking in to my wedge of cheese. I’ve got a chunk of warm crusty bread, some local butter, a couple of vine tomatoes and a dish of pickled onions. Oh, I also have a very acceptable bottle of ’06 Cab Sav breathing alongside. Fantastic!

.

.

Ron's big moment

.

This week (Fiction) Friday) has gone all theatrical!

The show was to start in just ten minutes time. The audience had been filing in and taking their seats for the last twenty minutes or so. There was a contented buzz filling the auditorium and the crackling sound of bags of sweets being opened. Not long to go and you could feel the excitement!

Then suddenly the lights went down, ten minutes early! The orchestra which had been playing a little light music suddenly stopped and frantically set about finding the music for the overture. There was a rustling of sheet music as the conductor raised his baton, then most of the musicians started playing.

Thirty seconds into the overture, the curtains swept aside, a hush came over the audience.One by one the musicians stopped playing and the spotlights flickered into life.

The stage was bare! At least it was until a little man sauntered on from stage left!

There, blinking in the middle of the empty set stood Ron the stage manager in his paint splattered dungarees with a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other! The only sound from the auditorium was the thud of seats popping up as people stood to allow the latecomers to shuffle their way to their seats in the middle of the rows!

Ron looked left, looked right, looked up, and then down. Being a true professional he decided that as the curtains had opened, the show must go on. He shrugged,and the crowd started laughing. Ron laughed back and the crowd laughed even more! Then he produced a spanner from his tool belt and started his back-stage party trick – juggling with his tools! The crowd loved it!

Ron had always fancied the idea of being a stand up comic. Perhaps this was fate. Perhaps this moment was meant to be. Dare he? Well, nothing else seemed to be happening so he started telling jokes!

‘Two cannibals are eating a clown. One says to the other, "Does this taste funny to you?” Laughter! ‘I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't find any’. More laughter!

It didn’t last long. The curtains flew closed leaving Ron half in and half out of the set. The audience roared for more, but that was it for Ron’s first public performance. A couple of minutes later the show that the audience came to see got under way.

But it wasn’t Ron’s last performance! Nowadays he appears in open mike sessions in pubs and clubs all around the area. He still wears his dungarees, juggles tools and tells corny jokes!

‘A recent survey was conducted to discover why men get out of bed in the night. Five percent said it was to bet a glass of water, twelve percent said it was to go to the bathroom and eighty three percent said it was to go home!’

Nice one Ron!

.

.

Seeking the hidden meaning

Be honest with me. Do you sometimes read a poem and think to yourself “what on earth was that all that about?” I do! Tell me, do you sometimes read a poem on someone else's blog then sit back and scratch your head? I must confess that I sometimes read them several times over and still I’m left thinking I’ve missed something!It is to my mind a somewhat elitist form of composition which tends to appeal to the more intellectually inclined amongst us!

Do you ever feel obliged to leave a pithy comment at the bottom of a post even though the poem went straight over your head? And if no one else has commented, do you go away and come back later rather than say something which makes it clear that you had no idea what it was about? And when you do return do you scan the other commenter’s remarks and paraphrase what everyone else has said?

One form of verse however is fairly easy to decipher, song lyrics! But even they can be a bit baffling sometimes. Take for instance Hide And Seek by Imogen Heap. It is to my mind one of the most interesting pop songs of all time. It’s sung ‘a cappella’ with some of the most haunting harmonies I’ve ever heard. But as for the words, they are a total mystery to me!

See what you make of it. Press the play arrow below, follow the lyrics and seek out the hidden meaning!
.

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Where are we

What the hell is going on?

The dust has only just begun to fall,

Crop circles in the carpet,

sinking, feeling.

Spin me round again and rub my eyes.

This can't be happening.

When busy streets a mess with people

would stop to hold their heads heavy.

Hide and seek.

Trains and sewing machines

.All those years they were here first.

Oily marks appear on walls

Where pleasure moments hung before.

The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this

still life.

Hide and seek.

Trains and sewing machines. (Oh, you won't catch me around here)

Blood and tears,

They were here first.

Mmm, what you say?

Mm, that you only meant well?

Well, of course you did.

Mmm, what you say?

Mm, that it's all for the best?

Ah off course it is.

Mmm, what you say?

Mm, that it's just what we need?

And you decided this.

Mmm what you say?

What did she say?

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.

Mid-sweet talk,

newspaper word cut-outs.

Speak no feeling, no I dont believe you.

You don't care a bit

You don't care a bit.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.

Mid-sweet talk,

newspaper word cut-outs

Speak no feeling, no I don't believe you.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

You don't care a bit.

.

I'm hungry

.
This weeks prompt over at Sunday Scriblings is Hungry.

What shall I sing next? I tried to stop them with All by Myself and they walked on by. I tried singing Walk on By, and guess what, they walked on by.

Don’t smile, please. I’m not trying to be funny - I’m hungry, and right now all I have in the guitar case in front of me on the pavement is a handful of coppers, a single pound coin and an empty wrapper from a bar of chocolate. I’d die for a bar of chocolate right now, and all I have is an empty wrapper which someone threw there.

I know what you are thinking. ‘He’s on drugs or booze and if I gave him some money he’d just use it to pay for his habit’. Ok, so I look a little scruffy. Actually I look very scruffy, dirty even.It’s alright for you strutting past dressed up like a picture from a magazine and pretending not to notice me. Have you seen these shoes? They let the water in when it rains. See this shirt? It’s all I have to keep me dry when the heavens open. A few minutes ago I saw you and your friends tucking into a McDonalds. You probably didn’t even need it. I bet you weren’t even hungry. But me? I’m bloody starving here, and if I don’t get a few quid in my guitar case soon I’m going to have another day without a meal.

I recognise him – the guy over there with the smug look on his face and a can of beer in his hand. He won’t remember me. But I remember him. Last time I saw him I was Jack-the-lad and he was sleeping rough. I helped him out. I even gave him a room for the night once and made sure he had a square meal inside him. Now we’ve changed places and he stands there as if he doesn’t know who I am. Oh look, he’s spotted me and he’s swaggering off with his gang of friends! I’d like to say I don’t care, but deep down I do.

I’m hungry, I’m so hungry. Think positive. I can do it. It wasn’t long ago I could play my music to a packed club and I would go home with a pocket full of loot and a smile on my face. Stand up. Smile. Sing you heart out. Give ‘em a dose of soul music. Show ‘em Elvis lives. I will eat tonight. I will, I will, I will. Please God, please say I will.

.

This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is now ready and waiting for you! Click on the badge below to take a look!

..

A starry night

.

This weeks prompt on (Fiction)Friday is Starry Night

.

The shimmering sun melts into a golden horizon as the warmth of the afternoon gives way to the crisp chill of an autumn evening. Mother earth wraps herself in a deep purple cloak speckled with a scattering of twinkling stars and all around stands silent, motionless, still.

The trees and hedgerows wear coats of grey as the moon casts ghostly black shadows at their feet, whilst the rolling fields sleep beneath a frosty silver blanket.

Peace, perfect peace

single click on arrow to hear me read it!

.

Wordless Wednesday - The beach in Autumn

.

.
This is the forth and final piece of my short story Tick Tock Tick Tock. It incorpoates this weeks prompt from Carry On Tuesday.

To read the complete story CLICK HERE!

By the time the body was pulled from beneath the rubble, the paramedics had arrived. Mitch stood staring, open mouthed. He started prodding himself and pulling at his hair. He shook his head violently from side to side as the realisation set in. He was looking at his double. The tick tock tick tock resounded in his head getting louder and louder every second. He squeezed the palms of his hands over his ears. Why was nobody else disturbed by the deafening noise? He began to shout ‘That’s me, it’s me. Someone please tell me what’s happening’. But nobody heard him.

‘Does anyone recognise this body?’ said a police officer. ‘Yes, it’s Mitch the poor soul’ said one of the firemen. ‘I know him from the golf club’.

The green uniformed paramedics worked slowly. Clearly the life was gone from the body; there was no need to rush. But suddenly one of them called to his colleagues. ’Quickly, he just stirred’. They began frantically pumping his chest. The crash cart was rushed over from the ambulance, and there was a sudden sense of urgency.

Mitch looked on in disbelief; the pain from the ticking in his head was unbearable. Then the chiming started. Why could no one hear it? One, tick tock, two, tick tock, three ...

To the amazement of the people gathered around, the body suddenly began to move.

Five, tick tock, six......

Then it sat bolt upright, its bulging eyes slowly turned towards Mitch.

Seven tick tock, eight, tick tock....

He felt himself grow weak. Everything around him became hazy and the ticking and clanging and clanging and ticking began to fade away.

Then he was gone.

*

How Mitch survived after being buried alive and assumed dead was little short of a miracle. He made a slow recovery but always seemed very distant as if his mind was elsewhere. His wife and daughter made regular visits to his convalescence home. They were never quite sure if he remembered who they were, but the nurses assured them that their visits were important to him.

It was his birthday and the nurse came into his room with a bundle of cards and a letter. He went through the cards one by one then slowly and carefully lined them up along the window ledge. ‘Aren’t you going to open that letter?’ she asked. But he just stared at it and shook his head. And days later the letter still sat there, unopened, propped against a coffee mug. Something about that letter seemed to worry him – scare him even. Whatever it was he wouldn’t open it.

His wife and daughter had moved to a new house in another part of the country, and they hoped that one day they would all be back together again as a family. Mitch’s consultant suggested that a visit to the new house might be beneficial, and so the next weekend his wife collected him and his overnight bag and they set off in her car. He hardly spoke during the journey. When he did it was about the weather, or comments about the way she was driving! As they entered the driveway to the new house the expression on his face hardly changed. Did he even understand where he was or who he was with?

His daughter rushed excitedly down the steps and ran to greet him. For one second she thought she saw him smile, but perhaps it was her imagination showing her what she so desperately wanted to see. They led him inside and he slowly looked around saying nothing.

‘Do you remember the lady who lived next door to us at the old house?’ his wife asked. ‘She found something of yours in the ruins of the house’. Mitch pulled a disinterested expression. ‘She said she wrote to you about it. Do you remember getting her letter?’ Mitch’s expression changed, as if something was frightening him. ‘Come with me’ she said. ‘No ‘said Mitch shaking his head. ‘Don’t be silly!’ she laughed as she led him by his hand into the lounge ‘Look’ she said.

And there, crouching on a shelf on the wall was the clock. Its hands were stopped where he saw them last, ten minutes to two as if it was grinning at him.

Tick tock, tick tock went the clock. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

*

Today Mitch is living in a home for the mentally disturbed. It’s unlikely that he will ever make a full recovery. He has a few of his possessions around him, his wife insisted he have them in the hope that they might bring back some memories.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

The end

'
This weeks prompt on Sunday Scribblings is Tattoo, and it fits in perfectly with part three of my story Tick Tock. You may read it as a stand-alone piece, but it would be better enjoyed if read after the first two parts which you can find directly below this post.
.

The next morning Mitch stood a way back from the crowd which looked in shocked amazement at the smouldering remains of his house. All that stood were the four walls. Blackened timbers stuck out here and there like giant children's pic-a-sticks and shards of glass covered the garden glinting in the sun.

The fire officers had done all they could. They’d worked all night bringing the inferno under control and were packing away their hoses and equipment. Suddenly someone shouted for everyone to be silent. ‘Something’s ticking' she yelled. ‘Listen’

There was indeed a loud ticking coming from within the crippled structure. A strange echoing sound. Tick tock tick tock it went. It sounded artificial as if it were being amplified. ‘It’s a bomb' shouted an elderly gentleman as he turned and started a rapid retreat. The others followed him. The fire officers went into a huddle then one of them took a few cautious steps toward the house.

Mitch ran forward. ‘Don’t worry ‘he shouted ‘it’s just an old clock. It is, I promise you’.

But the officers carried on as if he wasn’t there. One was having a conversation on his cell phone. Mitch heard the word bomb, and again he tried to assure the firemen that there was nothing to worry about. But they ignored him. They didn’t even acknowledge him.

‘I should know it’s my house’ yelled Mitch. ‘It’s my clock’. But still they ignored his pleas.

The instruction came for everyone to stand well back. Mitch however remained where he was un noticed.

*

The explosion was enormous. Windows in houses the length of the road were blown in. Squawking birds spiralled up into the sky as the trees shook and the ground shuddered. Mitch just stood there, unmoved, unshaken.

The army arrived soon after. A search of the remains gave no reason to suspect that another explosion was likely.

Suddenly a soldier shouted ‘There’s someone under here, look, I can see an arm just below these bricks’. They started throwing the bricks away from the scene and there it was, exposed for all to see. An arm which would hopefully be attached to a body. It was clearly the arm of a man, and on the arm was a tattoo in the form of a snake.

As Mitch looked on a feeling of terror rushed though his body. He pulled up his sleeve and stared at his shaking arm for on his arm was a tattoo of a slithering snake.

And then once again he heard that awful haunting sound. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

.

To read the concluding part click HERE

.

.

This is the second instalment of my new part work, and this week it encompasses the prompt from (Friday) Fiction.

To read part one, please click HERE

.

Mitch slapped his hand on the light switch. He frantically flicked the lever up and down. On, off, click click click click. Nothing. ‘Light damn you’ he yelled.

Suddenly the clock fell silent and the bulbs in the chandelier flickered and flashed into life. But it wasn’t the normal comfortable glow. It was as if he was a prisoner held under the piercing glare of an interrogators lamp. It was so intense that he felt an excruciating pain in his head; it was as if his eyeballs were about to burst. He grabbed a cushion from the couch and pressed it against his face then felt his way back along the wall to the switch. Click click click. He could still see the light through the puffy cushion and the heat from the fire was burning the backs of his bandaged hands. But they wouldn’t turn off. Click click click. Nothing. Then a second or two later there was a series of loud pops and when he dropped the cushion to the floor the only light he saw was that from the roaring fire which seemed to be laughing in his face.

Tick tock tick tock mocked the mantle clock as it came back to life. Its hands sat at ten minutes to two as if it was grinning at him. And then the chiming started once again getting louder and more piercing with each strike.

There are times in everyone’s life when you just know that the action you are about to take is the wrong one. Mitch knew that the chimney stack from this monstrous fireplace ran up through the house and was crucial to its stability. He sensed that the fireplace knew this too as it seemed to laugh in his burning blistering face. But sometimes rationality and reason ebb away and emotion and rage take their place.

He rushed out the back door and ran to the tool shed. The cold night air stung his face and hands but he hardly noticed. The door was locked. The key, the key – where was it. There was normally a spare hidden under a flagstone, the one over there to the left. He tore the stone from the ground splitting his finger nails in the process. Where was it? ‘Where are you for Christ’s sake’ he screamed. He burrowed at the cold earth like a frantic rabbit, but it was no good, it wasn’t there.

He got up to his feet. He was steadier now. What was going on around him had dispelled the effects of the alcohol, and he was totally focussed on the task he knew he had to perform. He kicked and thumped the shed door. Bit by bit it splintered and buckled then eventually it ceased resisting and flew backwards crashing onto the floor inside.

Where were they? He threw spanners and hammers into the air. ‘Where are you?’ he screeched. Then he found them. He’d bought them years ago. His wife had laughed at him. ‘What do you want with a lumberjack’s axe and that enormous pneumatic drill?’ she’s asked.

‘They were a bargain’ he joked ‘who knows, they may come in useful one day’. And he reminded her about it a year or so later when one day she decided she wanted the concrete patio dug up.

But right now he wasn’t joking. He rushed into the lounge, dropped the drill onto the floor so he could use one hand to shield his eyes from the dancing flames which licked the back of the fireplace. He knew what had to be done and damn the consequences. He screwed up his eyes, clasped the axe in both hands and began to swing it round and round then slammed it into the mantel piece. He heard the clock crash to the floor. There it laid defiantly going tick tock tick tock, louder and louder and louder.

Mitch swung the axe again and down fell the mantel piece shattering into pieces on the hearth. He opened his eyes. The flames didn’t seem so bright now. He suddenly felt in charge of the situation. Time for the pneumatic drill.

He managed to shove the plug into the power socket and with a squeeze of the trigger it roared into life. He began pushing and twisting the drill which rat-a-tatted against the fireplace until it started to break up and collapse. Then he turned his anger on the wall above. He was aware of the danger in his actions but right now it seemed not to matter. He thumped and pressed the head of the drill against the wall until he felt the massive concrete lintel crack. The job was done.

The burning logs began to hiss and scream like frightened animals and the flames shot outwards as if trying to escape. The wall was slowly moving downwards. A spider’s web of cracks in the plaster darted in every direction. The ceiling started creeping lower and lower in a series of groaning jerks.

He rushed out into the street and watched as the once proud chimney stack began to descend inch by inch into the roof. He laughed out loud and watched as the tiles sprung off in every direction as the roof began to buckle.

There was still time to rush back inside and have one last look at the dying remains of the fireplace which had taunted him all these years. Tick tock tick tock went the clock under the rubble. Tick tock tick tock TICK TOCK........

To read PART THREE click here

.
.

Mitch never liked the fireplace. It reminded him of a grotesque tombstone with the fire of hell burning at its centre. A kind of grey brooding monolith with a clock crouching on its mantle counting down the hours minutes and years as if to say ‘it’s only a matter of time’.

Often, after his family had retired for the night, he would spend long hours staring into the black abyss in which the flames mocked and danced, writing unfathomable messages in menacing glowing specks on its sooty backdrop.

He was to spend the weekend alone, his family were visiting relations in the west. It was Saturday morning and he spoke to his wife on the telephone. She laughingly gave him a list of household chores to carry out. He faithfully did the washing up from the previous night, dusted the furniture then began to clean out the fireplace.

The blackened half burned logs were still hot from the night before and singed his hands as he placed them in the metal bucket. One seemed hotter than the rest, and as he picked it out of the grate it suddenly burst into flames. He threw it onto the floor and it immediately burned a hole in the carpet and a column of acrid smoke rose into the air floating like a black cloud above his head. Grabbing it with both hands he flung it back into the fireplace burning the skin from his fingers. It landed in a shower of sparks, then the flames suddenly subsided. He looked down at his damaged hands, then the burnt carpet and then up at the fireplace. ‘You’ll not win’ he muttered under his breath.

After tending his burns Mitch set about completing the housework and laid firelighters, kindling and fresh logs in the grate. He placed a rug over the blackened carpet. There was no way he was going to light the fire this weekend, he would leave it ready for when his wife returned. That evening he took advantage of his new found freedom and joined his friends for a drink or two at The Black Horse. Actually it was more than one or two, and when he left the pub he trod an unsteady path back to his house!

As he turned the corner into his street he noticed smoke coming from the chimney on his house. For a moment he forgot he was home alone and imagined his wife and children sitting in front of the fire watching the TV or playing games. But then it struck him. He’d left the house empty, and the fire unlit. As he walked to his door the house was in darkness except for a flickering orange glow in the lounge window.

He fumbled with his key in the lock, then stumbled and half fell into the hallway. He pushed open the lounge door and the heat from the blazing fire hit him in the face sending him reeling back on his heels.

The fire hissed and crackled and spluttered and sparked. The clock ticked and tocked, getting louder and louder with every second. The whole scene was unbearable and he clasped his hands over his ears then screwed up his eyes to lessen the glare of the flames. Suddenly the clock began to chime. It hadn’t chimed for years – he’d never got around to having the bell repaired. One two three. The clanging of the chimes got louder with every strike of the hammer. Four, tick tock, five, tick tock, SIX, TICK TOCK....

To read part two click HERE

.

Carry On Tuesday

.

This weeks Carry On Tuesday prompt is from the poem Farewell. The opening lines are Don't speak, words will only steal the moment.

.

.

Shhhh, listen to the stillness

Is that the distant squeak of a grasshopper I hear?

And over there, a rasping cricket chirruping in the grass.

.

And in that tree, the one over there,

I’m sure I hear a song of a thrush

Yes, there it is and there’s another.

.

There’s a rustling in the undergrowth, hark,

It’s the sound of a scurrying creature.

Look there it goes, a fox heading for the open field beyond.

.

What’s that splashing, it’s coming from the stream

Over there,I see it, a shoal of silver trout

leaping, jumping splashing in the sparkling water.

,

Sit with me here, let’s not move

We’ll just listen to the stillness

Let’s not speak, for words will only steal the moment.

.

Carry On Tuesday part 2

.

A few days ago my friend Rosey suddenly surprised everyone with an announcement about her plans for the future. Hopefully you had a chance to read the piece which she wrote on her blog explaining what she’s doing.

I was, to say the least amazed. She has a really comfortable existence. A beautiful home, a job she loves and a circle of friends and family that most would envy. But she’s turning her back on it all. Not just for a short while as she said in her piece, but for anything up to two years.

None of us realised that behind the scenes she’d been planning and preparing for her new life for many months. She said that if we’d known about it we would have tried to talk her out of it. I think she was wrong about that. She can be assured that we are all in awe of her. She has committed herself to something few if any of us would take on.

In case you’ve yet read her post, I need to tell you that Rosey has signed up to the organisation Voluntary Service Overseas. Very soon she’ll be flying out the country to start a new life in a village in the African country Namibia. There she will be spending her days in a village school doing what she does best – inspiring children. But these won’t be the kids of the wealthy residents of Eastbourne. These kids live in a country which has been overtaken by aids. Many have no parents. All of them live in the most basic of homes or hostels. All will benefit from Rosey’s love and care.

She tells me that there is a fairly crude and unreliable internet service so hopefully she’ll be able to keep in touch. I’ve promised to give you any news she may have from time to time although I imagine that for her one day will be much as another.

I spent the last couple of hours with her. It was to say the least a fairly emotional meeting mainly because she’s decided just to slip away with the minimum of fuss. She had said that she was leaving in three weeks. In fact she flies out tomorrow. I didn’t know what to say when she told me .I knew it would be a difficult farewell, but I was under the impression that I had a little while to get used to the idea.

As she got up to leave, she placed a finger against her lips and quoted from a poem I wrote some time ago. “Don’t speak” she said “Words will only steal the moment”

.

And then she was gone.

.

.

The key

.
This weeks prompt on Sunday Scribblings is 'Key'.

Farewell Rosey

Have you seen my friend Rosey's new post? When she told me about her plans I was shocked. It’s the last thing I expected to hear from her.

She’s promised to keep in touch, and I’ve assured her that I’ll keep you up to speed with what she’s doing.

I’m going to miss her.

Natures bounty

.There is a corner of our fair isle known as The Garden of England. And here in the County of Kent the time has come to garner nature’s bounty.


Just months ago orchards of sturdy trees stood in rows as straight as soldiers, lighting up the rural landscape with brilliant displays of frothy blossom.


Now in the early days of autumn their bows hang heavy with green and red apples, and trees are laden with ripe purple plums. Shiny cherries hang in twos like musical notes and bulbous pears await the fruit picker’s hands.


The vintner prepares to harvest bunches of grapes from the sloping hillsides, and the time has come to gather in the brewer’s hops which will dry in Kent’s pointed oast houses ready for next year’s ales.

Mighty combines travel back and forth, their rotating blades levelling the fields of swaying crops. Left in their path are bales of hay like so many golden chess pieces.

Soon Mother Nature will enjoy a well earned rest, for once again she has provided us with a harvest as great as any that has been before. Soon the fruit trees will shed their leaves and the soil below protect the dormant seeds and play host to the hibernating creatures of the undergrowth.

All around the world advances, each year different from the year before. But here in the Garden of England, next year and the after will see the familiar cycle repeat itself, exactly the same as it has in centuries past.

.

Pictures from DeviantArt

.