if I didn't have a calendar I'd be able to tell the seasons from the brook that runs by my cottage. Babbling in spring, dry in the summer, flowing gently by autumn. These days it roars, spits and foams. Another storm is forecast tomorrow (after brief respite today) its a good excuse to go to earth and read...
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate
When frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires
- Thomas Hardy