The cathedral spire, looming out of the afternoon fog, appears to connect with the cloud base.
The Brick-banked Beck
A few white trumpets of greater bindweed remain on the twisting vines on a chain-link fence at the edge of a car park.
I return to a dozen wasps, some dozy, some dead, to evict from my studio this afternoon. The way three of them were huddling up in the top corner of the window this morning, I’d guess that they were hunkering down for the winter but only the queens will make it through to the spring.
They’ve been nesting in the roof-space in an ever-expanding colony since midsummer.