95.


April 23rd.


There is a Mexican wave of wind through the long grass: silver - green, green- silver. The black cap insistently declaims and has stolen some thrush riffs. And always, in the background, is the faint cuckoo call; I miss it then hear it, now here, now further. The hawthorn blossom is blowsey in the hedge and field edge. Its musty, heady scent is carried on the light wind.

To be lost in nature and landscape, delving and dowsing for that sense of place,, it's like looking for that lost childhood world, that care-less, rough time. From the narrowness of the human world it would be well for us to look up and out and take note that no bail outs are due from nature.