Looking out of my window here and I see two women, one with a blue umbrella, one buttoned up in her anorak; another woman in a red coat and with a red umbrella approaches, and they stop for a moment to talk, the three of them.
Maybe they were exchanging news on the terrible events in Paris… another couple come down the road, elderly, the old woman in black has a stick and her friend is holding an umbrella over her… Just a quiet Saturday morning here, but in France it must be a very different story…
Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither? ’
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Robert Frost
Lois Elsden 