Solitude

It is evening now. I walk down the farmhouse track, and at the bottom I can go left or right. But in front of me an ancient highway calls me to linger and then walk and brush my hands over growing crops. It is still warm, with only the noise of crickets to keep me company and the swaying leaves in the oak trees send a message to roosting pigeons who fight and flap in the warm air.

As far as I can see a few houses nestle in the folds of green fields, some with lazy wood smoke to prepare for a cooler evening. There are no church bells to tell me where I am and I walk slowly getting deeper and deeper into the ripening corn sheaves.

I look back at the farm house and wonder who trod this path, farmers, escaping airmen, pilgrims and maybe like me those who sought solitude. It would take only a few days to reach the breakers on the Atlantic coast, an invitation I decline.

Turning round I notice the dogs have followed me, they look up, I want to know what they think. Theirs is a silent world too, apart from calls to come and rattling of tins. The farm cats wait, slinking and then snarling with each other, hissing and patting each other’s flanks. Dusk will come and mice will be warned to stay in dusty holes or even climb into the rafters.

Last night a bat came into my bedroom, flitting and halting at obstacles then flitting till it found the window.

I doze, the frogs won’t start just yet, but I drink in the solitude and my recovery is built on silence.