The rowan berries have turned orange in the copse where the buzzards nest. It's the last day of July.
I always associate rowans with a solitary tree on a rocky hillside or near an isolated mountain farm, so that when I see them in a different place - around a supermarket car park, for example - they take me in my mind to a wild elsewhere. This is a kind of 'Innisfree' moment - Yeats pounding London's 'pavements grey' but still hearing 'the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore.'
The last day in July. Gorffennaf in Welsh. The word literally means 'the end of summer', from gorffen to finish, and haf summer. I always think that's a glass half-empty way of looking at the seasons, but, now that the heat wave has dissipated into the usual school holiday mix of heavy rain, strong winds and sunny intervals, July is at last living up to its Welsh name as it exits the calendar for another year.
The orange rowan berries sum up the sense of change in the air. The breeze makes a subtly different sound as it fingers the leaves, dry and brittle from the drought. The birds (except the buzzards) are largely silent now that they have finished nesting and are starting to moult.
Norman MacCaig's 'Rowan Berry' says:
Tomorrow, or tomorrow's tomorrow,
a flock of fieldfares
will gobble our whole generation.