Time to stare .

Irene , if she's coming , is taking a long time to make her way across the Atlantic . Despite the local papers increasingly apocalyptic weather forecasts the skies have remained clear , the wind calm and the sun obdurately warm .

As we move into September the last tourists have gone leaving the village and the little market town characteristically sleepy and quiet. This morning not a single car to be seen on the road between the house and the bakers . The same on our return. The swallows will be the next to go .

This last week Wilf has been getting tired more easily , his walks shorter and less frequent . This morning he makes it maybe forty yards down the lane before stopping and stretching out on the tarmac . He lies there snifing the air, an image of a content , unhurried, dog. The cows and their cautious calves peer at him over the fence .

Their unblinking interest brings to mind a happy little poem by William Davies; in its Gloucestershire lilt and cadences the sound of the poets own sheepdog traipsing along behind him. A gentle rebuke to times finality.

What is this life if , full of care ,
We have no time to stand and stare,
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet , how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.