Furling mist in the valley line this morning, heralding afternoon heat.
We stand a while, trace the unseen river, until cold jabs us to a brisk walk. Arm hair bristles. Extremities are chilled and spiky. Stolid bullocks, legs askance, are rendered part ghost in the haze. The sweetcorn field has no edge; might be infinite.
Washing is pegged above fresh mowed grass; blows hot and cold in the afternoon tussle of sun and breeze. I’m sat at the picnic table, paper weighted, drawing a sketch of stylised waves. Mr is snicking out lengths of ash sapling, to neaten the garden boundaries. He fetches me a cup of tea, a circle of clear bronze in a flat-bottomed cone.
The dogs need a second walk.
Wild strawberries grow, just past the curve of the turning to Treniffle. We should study the geometry of this curve; I think; we should replicate it, to catch and keep such a measure of sun that persuades midsummer plants to flower and fruit in September. The berries are a clear toned red, bobbled with seed, barely the size of a fingernail. To find them, it is best to squat and peer up, under the bow of the leaves. Those that grow above dog leg height can be eaten straight from the hedgebank.
Syrupy tang, unequal to measurement, makes a fizzy sweep of tongue.
|No picture of a strawberry- this is Fat Beagle- he loves to eat|
|And this is Dog, saccharine sweet...|