flocks of grass mist,wiggle and shard on my eyeline nettle sorrel wars and leaning heads frothy as whipped cream multitudinous dull colours picked out by sun aching towards it ,no not aching, not rising spreading towards it spilling into untidy space a cabbage white suddenly two now gone a wing like a petal of bindweed a young fox leisurely strolls by me I am contained in another air current a white tip to his tail slips into the hedge he never saw me another gratitude