Good Morning Sunshine...

Happy May Day! Here are some lovely shots of the dawn breaking as seen from the balcony of the bridal suite...

The sun's rays cascading through the early morning Waikato mist on a cool Autumn day...

The crisp blue sky...

with Swallows darting about, and the Nymphaeum in the background...

My Ode to Autumn...

Gold and scarlet painted leaves

hang delicately on the trees.

They fall and float upon the breeze,

the Zephyr's captive slaves.

Then dance and twirl upon the earth

crunch underfoot, erstwhile the turf

grows cold and damp; the shadows long,

til Summer's faded rose is gone.

Like embers in a fun'ral pyre

they leap and dance amidst the fire.

Like secrets hid: my heart's desire,

they brittle, live no more.

Wet and cold, lain dead they moulder, 

in trenches, drains, and gutters deep,

and decompose, the worms to feed - 

slain soldiers in a heap. 

We all are leaves, Our season's now,

so laugh and grow upon the bough:

for someday soon, I know not when,

the light will fade again.

(C) David Lord Cowell, March 2013.

Autumn...

It is hard to believe that summer is drawing to a close and the first bronzed leaves of autumn are starting to fall. The word autumn is derived from the Latin autumnus or auctumnus ‘the harvest time / time of plenty", which stems from the verb augere ‘to increase,’ because the crops increase and give their yield at harvest time. In England, Autumn was simply known as 'Harvest Time' until somewhere around the 15-16th century, when the word autumn became popular.

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Above: John Keats, Ode to Autumn.

Above: Edith Piaf, The Autumn Leaves (Les Feuilles Mortes)