Of what does a lowly aphid dream? This is what, as Field Study's Man in E17, I have been asking (and trying to remember?) while going about my humble and bumbling business in the mists and fogs of a season which otherwise feels so unseasonal and discombobulating. I have been worrying about the persistence of the leaves on the trees. Shouldn't more of them have fallen by now or rather, at the time these photographs were taken several days ago? So much withered green and dessicated yellow hanging overhead - a marcescent nightmare or sweet dream for a roaming aphid; the most recent guise of Field Study's Man in E17. I could be in heaven amidst all this yellowish autumnal senescence to which I am so strangely attracted. In the canopies which know no abscission I have sought comfort in the floriferous vision of Busby Berkeley choreographed to the strains of Artie Shaw. In this lack of a windfall it is by a waterfall I have dreamed of flowers past and to come.
Here are the remnants of another Berkeleyesque vision pasted on the dereliction of Newington Causeway not far from Elephant and Castle. It is a reminder of my recent dalliances with other visions of scantily clad rites of spring and summer. How fruitful and sweet will the honeydew of this far flown forage be?