Summer is dying and there is nothing can be done.
The leaves on the vine turn dry and crinkle.
Days shrink an inch and tighten with the light.
Nights are longer, and at the blackest hour, they grip like a fist and call in the ghostly chill and its factor.
Sunflowers dull and droop with no fight left.
Holyhocks wither and keel like once revered statues of the grand.
Tomatoes, lush and erect in scarlet lose their fleeting voluptuousness and lie damp and limp in the blink of one night's chill.
And there you have it.
But there is cabbage still firm in the ground and kale from Tuscany, we're told, waiting to spit in the face of frost, and there's Stilton with pear on Saturday and roast duck with grapes on Sunday,
and lost leaves get blown away.
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