Just can't explain it. Why do I hear Claude Debussey's music, specifically the
Prelude, l'apres-midi d'un faune? It goes through my head as soon as I write
woodland fruit. What triggered it, the word
woodland or the word
fruit? Does it matter? Does anyone really care? Well, the woodlot has quite a lot of wild fruit, which will dry-out, shrivel into insignificance like my posts, perhaps even ferment. Ay, there's the rub. For in that creep of death what delights may come when we have snipped off this mortal fruit, must give us cause: there's the project that makes calamity of so long sober. Those clever robins! Those lush thrush! No wonder there is a woodlot party going on. Open bar ... alfresco.
