A new season is on its way. I dare not say it’s name. Yesterday evening I looked at the sky above Primrose Hill and saw the light had changed. Something has shifted.
In the garden, the leaves on the old pear tree sound crisper than they did last week. The roses are two feet above the garden wall and their last flowers are far beyond the reach of my snippy secateurs. The flowers on the lavender have almost gone. We’ve given the ill-disciplined bay topiary a short back and sides.
If I bounce high enough on the trampoline in the garden, enough to wobble a little in mid-air, I can see apples ripening on a tree two houses down. In Regent’s Park yesterday there were neat clusters of elderberries here and there, and the sun shone low and golden across the green. On Hampstead Heath where I gathered enough blackberries to make four bottles of jam a few weeks ago, the leaves are just starting to turn.
How many sunny days have we left this year? I can’t bear to count. I resolve instead to wear summer skirts for as long as possible, to spend the weekends outdoors, to wake with the light before it disappears.