summer

The lanes are frothed with sweet scented cow parsley and from the fields the noise is of many gentle bovine breaths, the buzzing of insects on the wing and birdsong. The lane is dusty and in some places dappled with shade, everywhere leaf and green is bursting forth and the trees are turning their faces to the sun. The garden has exploded and the bees fly low dusted with pollen from a thousand flowers. Summer afternoons are spent in the garden, work barely done as the endless call of outdoors proves too hard to ignore.