Yesterday the evening sky was painted on in broad strokes, so accomplished I could have stood to applaud, only I was being driven beneath it in a VW Passat. Dreaming in the passenger side, the hedge flashes past, thoughts keep speed. There’s a cloud I see so pink and fluffy you could prong it on a fork and toast it in a fire.
Sleep well, after all that awe and gawping.
This morning’s sky is a scene of mountainous cloud peaks. From my seat at the oak bureaux I am smiling down on lively Friesians, huddling and milling like children in a gossipy school field. I can see fingers of dead branch on the fat trunked ash tree, see the hairy ridge of hedges huffle round the fields, see the flouting billow of treetops, catch the stalking yellow top of corpulent machinery. Between a square biscuit of ripening crop and the icy cloud summits, a strip of dark moorland. On the furthest hill, patches of field are stitched together by bobbled trees.