Imperceptibly, then noticeably, the days get shorter. I remember our years in North London, when, on Wednesday evenings, I attended the Holy Communion service at our 19th Century red-brick ‘High’ church. The sun shone into the Lady Chapel at 8pm. Then, as autumn approached, I would notice that the lights were on. It was the holiday month, August. Here, where we live now, I switch on the light a little sooner every evening.
For many years , during August, we stayed for a week in Wales. On our return, after our cab picked us up at Paddington and we drove home through St John’s Wood, there was a warmth and mellowness in the light. It gently enriched the quiet wide streets, with a nostalgia not yet experienced. The light was the light of the maturing year, just as now, the cornfields are yellow. Harvest time again, soon.
My buddleia tree is prolific again, its blooms sweet with a gentle – and young scent.
