A Mouthful of September

Wednesday 15th September

Day 147

‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’

If my mother had been walking with us to the allotment this morning before breakfast she would have quoted those lines. Neither of us can remember the poet or the next bit but I can see her, her finger raised in the air - a conductor of verse - as the words flow from her like a musical score.

The low sun slants through the tangle of bean poles and the long grass soaks the hems of my jeans. We pick the last of the courgettes, the wide leaves are turning crinkly brown and dusted with white mould. I pull carrots and he waters the tomatoes in the greenhouse. The greeny brown conference pears are bending the branches of their tree. As I cut the sweet peas my fingers feel stiff and cold. The air smells musty in the bed of squashes.

At home I google the poem. It’s ‘Ode to Autumn’ by John Keats. He writes a lot more but I think those few words say it all. A mouthful of September at our allotment .