The mists are rolling in, slowly creeping along the valley floor and up over our hillside. The world is becoming ethereal, we are the mariner lost at sea. Distant land marks are swallowed under the fog for days at a time and the rain is lashing down in what seems like an endless foretelling of a flood. The garden is slipping from the luscious green into sepia tones.
The dahlias battle on waiting for the first frosts to strike, it seems like another time when we potted them on in late winter. The French dwarf beans are a distant dream and the runner beans are slowing their endless march up to heaven. Even the marigolds can't deny that the potatoes are over, the harvest is coming to an end. Autumn is with us.
In this creeping sepia world we must cling to the last throes of summer, the reminder of warmer, if not necessarily drier days and the dahlia in all its gaudiness brings joy to our hillside at this time of year. They give is a direct link back to balmy summer days, the pulsing flight of bees from flower to flower, the cavalcade of butterflies and moths, frogs and slugs -- even the slugs are retreating from the world, they can smell winter and the frogs have become docile and sleepy.
Even as we write this we feel the same desire to hibernate, to climb into bed and curl up until next spring but there are things to grow, crops to care for and a winter wonderland to behold.