Saturday morning the fog wraps itself around everything .
The light changes rapidly,
The contours of people and landscape change.
A dreamlike landscape shrouded in mist and fragments of blue sky.
The Light Changes Everything.
Poetry
The Hour of Death
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
John Milton
Belief in our mortality, the sense that we are eventually going to crack up and be extinguished like the flame of a candle, I say, is a gloriously fine thing. It makes us sober; it makes us a little sad; and many of us it makes poetic. But above all, it makes it possible for us to make up our mind and arrange to live sensibly, truthfully and always with a sense of our own limitations. It gives us peace also, because true peace of mind comes from accepting the worst.
Deprived of immortality, the proposition of living becomes a simple proposition. It is this: that we human beings have a limited span of life to live on this earth, rarely more than seventy years, and that therefore we have to arrange our lives so that we may live as happily as we can under a given set of circumstances. … It made us therefore, cling to life─the life of the instinct and the life of senses─on the belief that, as we are all animals, we can be truly happy only when all our normal instincts are satisfied normally. This applies to the enjoyment of life in all its aspects.
A sad poetic touch is added to this intense love of life by the realization that this life we have is essentially mortal. For if this earthly existence is all we have, we must try the harder to enjoy it while it lasts. A vague hope of immortality detracts from our wholehearted enjoyment of this earthly existence.
Lin Yutang, The Importance of Living.
Acquainted With The Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Robert Frost
My Neighbourhood in Autumn Colours
I had a quick walk in my neighbourhood today.
The delicate smell of weathered leaves are intoxicating.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth
seeking the successive autumns.
George Eliot
Like Children…
How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.
By Elsie N. Brady, Leaves
Autumn Is Here
We walk past the clay pit turned into an azure lake.
Before there were excavators, now fish are swimming.
We walk past the weir and the yellow owl house.
The owl house because the owl chose the chimney as a lookout point.
Looking for the bird, knowing that it found a nice box without smoke.
Wandering along lakes with shoes disappearing in leaves.
It is October, Autumn is here.
A tree with a view
I know! I shouldn’t complain.
Not after Irma or the devastating monsoon or the terrible forest fires.
But something has changed in Denmark, at least this year.
Large amounts of rain is about to set the record for the wettest summer in living memory.
Therefore I found the poem by Juan Olivarez very suitable:
At first I couldn’t get enough,
Now I just can’t make it stop.
No rain in the desert that was rough,
Around here there’s no dry spot.
It’s been raining everyday,
Since I came back to my home.
The sunshine just can’t seem to stay,
Hurricanes and storms, won’t leave us alone.
I like the rain like everyone,
But it’s been over done a bit.
We’ll need a boat before we’re done,
I’m about to throw a fit.
There’s a fish just swimming by,
Waving his soggy fin at me.
All I could muster was a ‘hi’,
From my perch up in the tree.
Juan Olivarez
The Light
Yesterday was a wonderful day by the seaside.
An unexpected summer day.
The eastern light our spires touch at morning,
The light that slants upon our western doors at evening,
The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight,
Moon light and star light, owl and moth light,
Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade.
O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!
T.S. Eliot
Lying in the grass
Who would have thought it possible that a tiny little flower could preoccupy a person so completely that there simply wasn’t room for any other thought.
Sophie Scholl
And ‘t is my faith, that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
William Wordsworth
…One sweet hour with the fragrance of the red clover
Herman Hesse
Buttercups and Fairy Miners
Everything is lush and green as far as the eye can see, but after a while there is something that interferes with the green.
Golden glimpse between tall pines. Buttercups. Billions of buttercups.
As if that weren’t enough, the beautiful Icelandic horses adorn the meadow and immortalise this vibrant summer day
That’s what walking is all about:
Beautiful discoveries ❤
There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.
They take the shining metals,
And beat them into shreds,
And mould them into petals
To make the flowers’ heads.
Sometimes they melt the flowers
To tiny seeds like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.
And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold,
To keep, with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.
By Wilfrid Thorley
HANNA'S WALK 
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