Light 's short but the quality's delicious. I've nearly reached the last of the cooking apples - one or two are rotting now in the bowl, bruised from their fall. The fridge is full of puree and apple cake. I could make scones with the rest.
Behind drawn curtains I listen to wood burn and spit. Night falls in the afternoon. Heavier covers weight the bed.
The wardrobe bulges with jumpers again. Scarves and gloves fill pockets. Wild winds send the kitten scooting around the house.
This month, its hedges, are red with wine and hips. I feel a closing in, a wrapping, a change. I browse recipe books. Walk lit crescents on hillsides. I organise photos. Mend.
I drive through a tunnel of beech trees to the heart of November, pace a vast silver bay to visit its soul.