When we came home across the hill
No leaves were fallen from the trees;
The gentle fingers of the breeze
Had torn no quivering cobweb down.
The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still,
No withered petals lay beneath;
But the wild roses in your wreath
Were faded, and the leaves were brown.
(Not trying to be mysterious. Just it is the letting go of yet another layer, another set of assumptions…all is fine and good.)
Crescent Beach is a good place to go have a sit and watch the birds.