Friday, 23 September 2016

Friday Blog Hop: Celebrate the Small Things

This week I'm celebrating brotherly love. And what finer example than this moving event -

I have two sons. There's a nine-year age gap between them and they had their difficulties with each other when they were younger but now they are really close, despite a distance of 14,000 miles between them.  I know that they would have each others' back come what may. So I celebrate that they both turned out to be loving and loyal, despite growing up in a one-parent household.

I'm also celebrating the Autumn Equinox, which took place yesterday, the 22nd September. I love the cycle of changing seasons and I especially like early Autumn, the last lingering warm days, the low mists on the fields, the smell of bonfires, the harvests being brought in. My youngest son is living in Singapore for 2 years and tells me that though he enjoys the constant heat - around 34 degrees - he would love to occasionally wake up to a chilly morning.

I learned this poem as a schoolgirl and it remains one of my favourites, reminding me of days when the world seemed a more gentle place  -

To Autumn

by John Keats
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-eaves 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’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.
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 twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?
Think not of them, — thou hast thy music too,
While barrèd 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

I'm gratified that more of my Hubpages content has been transferred to specialist niche sites and that they are getting more views -

You can find them  by scrolling down the list of my content that you will find here -