I sit in my deckchair on pallets and railway sleepers, and drink in the heady slowness of high summer. The long grass is browning, baking in shimmering heat, the air still and thick.
Branches of Silver Birch extend lazily overhead, shading the ground beneath, a welcome refuge from the sun, high at noon.
The trees are relaxing into the heat now, the vigorous growth of spring and early summer finished for the year. As if as one, the natural world has exhaled, branches softening like muscles, the pause before autumn peeks over the horizon. Flowers bloom easily, colours pastel and luxuriant. Hedges thick, a hint of a smeuse between roots, the buzz of insects bringing boundaries to life.
I observe and fade into the scene, taking root with the trees, my self turning with the wheel of the seasons. A time to look at the achievements of months past, a place to take stock, survey the growth of what was planted before, revelling in long days and warm nights.
The sun’s light is mellow, the heat dispersed, no longer the harsh burning light of early summer but a steady warmth rising, meeting the air, settling all around. I mellow along with it, harvesting fruit and vegetables, harvesting thoughts and ideas. Summer is settling, and I feel my roots take hold, and I begin to settle too.