Today it is raining and the air is heavy with the scent of the tide from the nearby sea. (We are nearly like an island, after all, with over 400 miles of coastline.) A thick balmy wind blustered around the cottage most of the night, strangely warm for all its fury.
Darkness is settling in so much earlier these days. Twilight comes so quickly. Too dark, too soon. The sun is angled off to the side, all day, as if he, too, is tired and can't hold his head up. The burial ground looks lonelier now, with the falling leaves scudding in the wind and the trees nearly bare. Wind in the cemetery is always sad I think. It makes me wonder if the dead can hear it, like a lonely whistling or moaning over their heads. The bare trees make it easier to see the acres of headstones and monuments, the marble angels reaching heavenward, the stone maidens with their arms outstretched to strew flowers over the graves. Black ravens sit in the naked branches overhead, like ghoulish caretakers or guardians. They seem to live there, although I can't be sure. Each morning I hear them - cawing and swirling overhead in flocks, flying up the road from the burial ground and finding their way into the trees nearby. And then at dusk, they make their way down the road again, clouds of them, with their raucous cries, disappearing back into the burial ground. Strange.