Despondent these days, with occasional higher spirits—and bone-tired. Which precedes the other (the fatigue or the despondency), I don’t know.Consequently, I haven’t written anything in this journal in days, because nothing seemed of consequence to write.
Did have a nice evening walk. Left in a little shower. The herbage displayed that seeming inner luminescence which it has when the skies are overcast and light rain is falling. A field of oats was particularly bright, and some purple flowers in the ditches I’m tempted to call phlox, but I know they’re not.
The abundance of early flowers has given way to only a few, and those already fall-like purples and golds. Could the shortness of summer here mean that fall flowers bloom in July? I saw goldenrod, and a yellow flower similar to what we know as bitterweed. Doesn’t seem to be quite the same, though—when crushed, it has a much pleasanter, almost resinous, smell, albeit a bitter taste. I’m sure our variety at home is a variety of chrysanthemum. I recall my mother telling me that when their cow ate of it, she gave bitter milk.
What few daisies are left are seedy and bedraggled.
In truth, the feel of the air and light and look of the land say that summer has turned the corner leading into fall. The fields (pastures, that is) already wear a rusty-colored look—from a grass which seeds to red. And the hay is everywhere cut and gathered in, leaving strips of golden stubble. The most beautiful views are from hilltops where one can overlook several fields, with their gold, light and dark green, and red hues. And over all the constantly changing sky of this Atlantic island.
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