We have passed the height of summer and now we are rolling steadily downhill towards winter. Still, the sun is hot and the bees and butterflies continue to drink nectar from the remaining flowers. The wasps however are confused by the scent of merlot in my glass.
With fewer insects to eat,
They focus on the picnic.
White, cotton wool clouds move slowly across the sky as I watch the oak tree lift its branches for the breeze.
Clouds move by,
As a breeze stirs the trees;
With only a little wind, the atmosphere is peaceful. The current troubles of humanity and the world seem far away, diminished, allowing the sounds from around the garden to soothe me.
Woodpigeons calling, sparrows cheeping, robins singing, martins twittering, starlings whistling, wrens scolding!
There are so many birds singing in the hedgerows, and from the garden itself, there is a quiet chorus of insects as they move among the flowers.
Like the clouds, the changing season drifts by, barely noticed.