November 3rd, 2021

A Nip In The Air

Ailz has been having a few days bed rest and- because someone who's feeling reasonably fit needs to stay within earshot of my mother- I've not been out in the fields. This morning she (Ailz, not my mother) is sitting at her desk- foot raised to counter the swelling- and I've resumed my clipping of brambles. Down in the furthest corner of the furthest field- where no-one ever goes but me- there's a pathway they've been encroaching on- and I've cleared it.

"Of course," says Ailz, "The reason I'm feeling all shivery could be because it's bloody freezing". I look across at the monitor. The sensor that's exposed to the sun says its 11 degrees out and the one that's sitting in shade says 8. That's another reason I've not been out much; there's been "a nip in the air".

I like that phrase, "nip in the air". It's vivid. Sensory. Whoever coined it was a poet. John Betjeman used it as the title of his final collection- and I can't hear it or use it without thinking of him.

I've been reading- in Dolores Cannon's Keepers of The Garden- about a planet which doesn't wobble- the way ours does- and therefore has no seasons. "How nice," I think, "For it to be summer all year round, but then again how boring...."