Once last autumn....

Dear Thathu,

Once, last autumn, we went for a walk...among many afternoon walks that we do.

That could happen anywhere in the world, but it was not anywhere. It was just 5 minutes away at a park near our house. I know that where you live there is hardly any empty space where you can take your daughter for a walk and here I am blessed.  Indeed, really blessed. There are several parks nearby where mine can play and walk and run. And no, there aren't any dangerous dogs around. At least I haven't come across any.

It's gorgeous and quiet. And in the afternoon autumn sunshine, it is just perfect. Bedford is a small town but it has ample places for children to run around and play. But because there are many small parks, they are not crowded at all. Far from it.

I walked towards the setting sun with her running in front of me. The golden leaves spread in multitude around my feet. The trees had shed most of it, but there was enough left on the trees to enjoy the change of colours. I walked without a care in the world. Just smiling at her chattering away. It was one of those mother-daughter moments - in Blissful Bedford. 

Here are some photos of one of those days...

enjoy! And with our shared love of poetry, my friend, I leave you in the good care of Keats. 

To Autumn

John Keats, 1795 - 1821

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.

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, 
  Drowsed 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 cider-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.