Our liquid amber has been the first to turn.
Its living leaves are the colour of a sunset, or a fire.
The fallen ones form a carpet of gold on the ground below.
Worried by the wind, they rustle and shift, while in the foliage above, around an abandoned nest, spiky green seed balls hang like Christmas decorations.
A chill is in the air and the first rain in months drizzles from an oyster sky.
Thousands of swifts have left their twilight perch
On the high-voltage line above the farmer's field
to make their long journey south, I presume.
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