This grey autumn day reminds me of my favourite Robyn Hitchcock song. All of the colours are indeed running out: the ashes have already lost their leaves and in my garden the rugosa roses and apple trees have turned yellow. Soon the only bright shapes will be holly berries, rose hips and Sylvia, the white hen you can see here on the lawn with her step-sisters, Ag and Hilda:
I took this photograph from my desk less than an hour ago. Even as I look out of the window now, the colour and light are fading and the difference between the picture and my view is stark: it's growing dark faster than I can type, or at least faster than I can type anything half-way decent.
Tomorrow I am going down to Dorset to visit my parents for a few days. I'm running out of time: I have to pack, and to perform all the small but essential tasks I've been putting off for weeks. The trees may well be completely bare before I write again.