But something moved, flashed, turned a silver wing in the
air. It was September after all, the middle of September, and past six in the
evening. So off they strolled down the garden in the usual direction, past the
tennis lawn, past the pampas grass, to that break in the thick hedge, guarded
by red-hot pokers like brasiers of clear burning coal, between which the blue
waters of the bay looked bluer than ever.
To the Lighthouse (23)
 |
| Red Hot Pokers below Talland House in 2002 |
September, captured. Beautiful.
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