This is picture #2 of a weekly Photo Challenge that I set myself – there is no particular theme. The challenge is to get myself outside and to simply take photographs.
This image of fallen leaves was captured on my mobile phone, on a local bridleway, and also edited on said phone with the Snapseed app – you can get the app for free, here:
When Autumn comes, it portrays itself a second spring, where every leaf is a flower, filling our environment with amazing colour. It’s a gorgeous time of the year, but a prelude to a miserable winter, where one’s head sinks lower and lower – just like the falling leaves.
- If you are wondering what phone I’m using, it’s a relatively cheap one when compared to your Apples, and Samsungs – but just as feature rich, and offers a superb double Leica lens. It is the Huawei Honor 9 64GB.
Ode To Autumn
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 mossed 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-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.