A sketch is all I can manage, as the seasons change clothes in this late remembered summer. It’s September and still the fruit loiters in the sunning of the skies, waiting for the call of the next. A lazy summer of headiness slinks away reluctantly. The wren chatters the beck for the umpteenth time and the coal tit still manages the flirt twixt branch and feeder. And yet – a sketch is all I can manage.