the sun went down on summer isle and drew the north wind down from the pole. put the commons deep in the mud, up to their gills in the passing season’s silt. the wicker basket men took off their masks and headed for the one doored pub, fiddles tucked under their elbows, readying themselves for a six month lock in. an excursion on christmas eve for a flounder might be the best they willï¿¼ manage. passing round a plate for frank barlow and his concrete keepnet. your fat forty was the start of autumn proper. the fish that stole the baked beans from the altar at the harvest festival. here the wind blew down lamb street banging the doors at christ church spitalfields like the apsley cherry-garrard’s tent flap on his fortieth night at the pole. the thames is running like slate and i’m putting old float winders on the fire. the roach will be on the elder berries before too long. want to get out on the river but sandy denny has stolen my bait box.
glimpse of a wren on the birdtable