
September is a beginning and an end all at once. The garden is starting to go to seed, leaves crisping, seed heads ripening, flowers beginning to fade in the shortening days. Conkers are bursting out of their spiky coats, drumming down onto the drive and scattering themselves everywhere, bunches of sycamore keys hanging in the trees waiting for the wind to set them spinning. The hedgerows are full of hips and haws, the blackberries almost over, the sloes waiting to be picked.
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