Tuesday, 17 June 2008

Down the road, afternoon.

The thistly field has been mowed, a buzzard flutters lumberingly over it.

The goldfinches feed on forget-me-not seeds in Pierre's deserted garden, where I pick a handful of sour strawberries.


Bee said...

Lots of slightly sad words in this one.

Do you find a mowed field a bit melancholy?

Lucy said...

Yes, I suppose I did a bit! I suppose they probably mow it most years, and it comes up again, but still. Pierre's old garden is a bit sad too, though in some ways a gentler place than it was when he was obsessively keeping it in order.