In the night the east wind stripped the cornus of its foliage to reveal the great crimson stalks that will last until next spring. In the shelter of the woodland garden the hosta still has leaves, but they have turned a buttery yellow.
Looking around, I’ve decided I could do with more splodges of butter - with hindsight, the concrete-shuttered wall of the old cottage, now hidden under a blanket of ivy, would be so...
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