Bare ruined choirs...

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

- Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare

Went for a walk today after church, and the creeping tendrils of winter are slowly beginning to caress away the summer, plucking leaves from shaking branches and rustling the grass beneath my feet. Today's picture was on my walk, at the bottom of my road is this rather cleverly hidden tribute to the Bard himself, whose worthy poem I picked to headline today.

I always see Shakespeare as a bit of a cynic when it comes to autumn and winter, he seems more of a summer person to me. But personally, I think the crunching leaves, colder evenings and bright blue skies with a bite in the air are the best days of the year. I enjoy all the seasons fully, as God intended, but there's a magic in autumn that the others don't possess, a fragrance so subtle that people breathe without knowing or acknowledging. It's a sleepy time, when nature gently climbs the stairs to her bower and drifts off into winter's arms for a season.