Weekend 107: Chasing the autumn sun

Whole day sunshine is past for now. We are surrounded by mountains and to get the warmth of afternoon sun we need to move out of the house. We do not plan our hikes/walks on daily basis but what matters is the sunny side of the mountains 🌞😎. Anyways when we go out near farms, we get chance to say hello to happy sheeps and to enjoy the beauty and freshness of autumn.

I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.~
L. M. Montgomery (Anne of Green Gables)

AUTUMNAL

Pale amber sunlight falls across
The reddening October trees,
That hardly sway before a breeze
As soft as summer: summer’s loss
Seems little, dear! on days like these.

Let misty autumn be our part!
The twilight of the year is sweet:
Where shadow and the darkness meet
Our love, a twilight of the heart
Eludes a little time’s deceit. … …

Ernest Dowson (The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson)

Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn–that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness–that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling.~ Jane Austen (Persuasion)

In our region the day tempearture is well below two digits now and the days are getting shorter hence it’s obvious that people enjoy the warmth of autumn sun. Trees are changing colours quite fast. A new scene welcomes us whenever we walk on the roads.

Festival of leaves &

Jo’s Monday walk, I think Jo is enjoying a short break for now 🤩

I am updating this post and joining Robin’s Walktober . It’s going to be fun.

Sunday Trees

sundaytree_29dec19

“Perfection”

Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind.
Every star-thistle has a thorn.
Every flower has a blemish.
Every wave washes back upon itself.
Every ocean embraces a storm.
Every raindrop falls with precision.
Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail.
Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn.
Every tree-frog is obligated to sing.
Every sound has an echo in the canyon.
Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor.
Creation’s whispered breath at dusk comes
with a frost and leaves within dawn’s faint mist,
for all of existence remains perfect, adorned,
with a dead sparrow on the ground.

Poet – R.H. Peat

Inspired by Becca’s Sunday Trees