The Sunday house lies silent still, in the half-light, a scattering of kitten toys litter the landing. Now I remember, somewhere in the wee small hours, Oscar was quite insistent it was playtime. No sign of him this morning though. BST (British Summer Time) has ended, my head tells me its late but the clock tells me its early. It will take a little while till we adjust to early darkness and this brief hour of morning light.
Two days of wind and rain; the still pools of the little burn are now a torrent of brown water, rushing pell-mell to the sea. No time for reflection. Suddenly, it’s downhill all the way to Christmas!
Flowers tattered and torn, seeds scattered on the wind. The frenetic harvesting has come to an end, the “tattie howking” is finished, produce safely stored in barns. Somewhere in the past, I can still recall…
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