Today was like a poem...

It really was. I was driving through Hampstead, and all the trees were burning bright with orange and red and gold, and the air was damp, the pavements leaf- and rain-slicked, and white mist was swallowing the far end of Whitestone Pond. I drove past the road that Keats lived on, and the little lanes and red-brick mansion flats and white-washed villas of Hampstead, and glorious trees and open spaces of the Heath, and all I could think, over and over again, were the words 'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness', because that's all I could see.

Everything was set against the white of the mist, and the tunnel of trees by the Heath on South End Road felt peaceful rather than dark, as it often does.

It was absolutely and utterly perfect, and the only thing which could have improved it was if I had been able to get out of the car and go for a walk. But being in the car made it like passing through some beautiful dream, and it was spell-binding.

To Autumn by John Keats