bunn (bunn) wrote,

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Season of mists and bla bla bla

How I hated that poem when I was younger.  It seemed to push aside the still-perfectly-good summer and be rushing needlessly ahead, without acknowledging that a *proper* autumn wasn't about sun on hazelnuts, but about wild winds and crunchy leaves and frost and bonfires.   The poem has grown on me a bit since, but I still think 'close bosom-friend of the maturing sun' is an utterly ludicrous line. 

Suddenly, we are having a summer (or, if you are of the keatsian persuasian, an autumn) .  There are suddenly a lot of blackberries about. Nom.  There are also a lot of butterflies. Here are some enjoying the buddleia bushes that have colonised the bank in front of our house that was all bare earth a year or so ago.

They are the most common sorts we get around here and more or less the right distribution too : from left to right, a red Admiral, small Tortoiseshell, Peacock, and another Small Tortoiseshell. We must see at least twice as many Small Tortoiseshells as any other butterfly.
(Click to embiggen!) 

Sadly, the neighbour to whom this land belongs says she hates buddleias: 'so messy'  - so I suspect this will be the last year of them. Oh well. I have a big buddleia bush in the front garden; probably the sire of all these plants - and I'm not removing it, not nohow. :-p

Tags: berries, garden, never 'eard of a keat, poetry, weather

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