"Autumn, The Thistle-Down's Flying"

The thistle-down's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

John Clare's poem sums up the start of Autumn this year perfectly. These conditions can't last. I was struck by how early it got dark this evening and we're told rain is on the way.

Not a breath of wind this afternoon to rock my scentless plant bug in its thistledown bed. I must return to Epping Forest to look for Clare's home. I couldn't locate it last time I tried.

PS Just read that this is known as the cinnamon bug. Like it!