A bear is quite beautiful
Though never quite bare
Because a bear's never bare
Being covered in hair now.

Now you are quite beautiful,
although rarely bear.
You are most beautiful
wearing only your hair.

The familiar strength of the sash window,
declaring value to the otherwise glimpsed plain wall.
Now highlighting the downward spreading stain of a failing aged iron gutter.

Long shadows sandwiched between a biting breeze and a not quite wet damp black tarmac.

The end of colour intense time, echoing summer and spring's past,
pulling eyes to the grey mute hues of sky and tree.
A subdued stating of its intent to last.

Year-end approaches, celebration looms, competing the grey with a triumph that brings change towards gentler tones.
And a lightness,
seemingly lost in the yearly cycle.

The scent of spring once hidden beneath the diminishing decay of autumn and winter's contribution brings a bright hope forecasting a weathered change.

The beat of the yearly cycle quickens adding strength and tempo to my own hearts quickening with a prospect of longer days.

The quiet of a late summer morning
The sense of silence which draws my awareness.
The quiet that contradicts its own existence,
As attention is drawn to the hidden sounds of an otherwise busy day.

Distant dogs building a chorus of calling and acknowledgement,
Fading as energy and urgency slackens.
Replaced by the still warmth of summer.
The village primary school,
Releasing the pent-up pressure of young kids bursting into sun and play.

A tractor from Bridge Farm,
Maybe 'Old Rick'?,
Chased by a misplaced flock of gulls
Raiding the newly exposed bounty of worm and grub.

These are my quiet days of summer
Holding me in their warmth, as I drift to days of summer past.