My cycle to work the other morning really epitomised Keats’
“season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”. The mist hanging over the river, lingered for
much of the morning, an ethereal mystery hiding the ageless secrets of the
water as it flowed to the sea. It was a
morning for magic, for sighting water nymphs and sprites wearing fragile garments
woven from autumn leaves and spider silk. The glossy rose-hips, swollen from the
rain and summer sunshine, glowed like rubies on their tangled briars. Sadly, I was unable to loiter and remain in
that enchanted woodland lit by an ephemeral sun.
My cycle to work the other morning really epitomised Keats’ “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”. The mist hanging over the river, lingered for
much of the morning, an ethereal mystery hiding the ageless secrets of the
water as it flowed to the sea. It was a
morning for magic, for sighting water nymphs and sprites wearing fragile garments
woven from autumn leaves and spider silk. The glossy rose-hips, swollen from the
rain and summer sunshine, glowed like rubies on their tangled briars. Sadly, I was unable to loiter and remain in
that enchanted woodland lit by an ephemeral sun. 
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