“SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.”
What would Keats have made of Autumn in West Dorset these days?
Maize fields are harvested – for dairy farms or biodigesters, their stubble is left over winter. Compacted soils prevent water from infiltrating. Soil, or rather the pale shadow that passes for a substrate used by so many arable farmers these days, is washed away into streams…
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