Early on an autumn evening the low sunlight fades thin casting long shadows and touching the landscape with mild luminosity. The air is becoming cold and damp.
Both autumn and evening come round unbidden, both autumn and evening are times of dying light, and both autumn and evening can be exceeding beautiful. Is that beauty an apology for taking the light? Are they gentle reivers come from over the border to steal from us quietly? Do they perhaps commend resignation to the divine will?
As I walked up the lane I saw a figure squat down and hunched on the verge, wrapped up in a hood and scarf and wearing layers of clothing, slowly stabbing at the earth. She turned to look up at me in response to my curious greeting as I drew near. A young woman planting daffodil bulbs by the road side. She had a bucket of them. It was her task for the day. I thanked her for her planting.
She was commending hope.
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