These past days have been miserable with dreadful weather and no possibility of gardening. Walter de la Mare’s November echoes the feelings of these days very well:
There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o’er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
Walter de la Mare
Fortunately, today brought a change, a break in the rain, some sunshine, some blue sky and a long overdue opportunity for a walk: