Coffee And Cold Waters

Overnight a coverlet of mist soothes thirsty fields, settles restless limbs with its skilled easing of heat. After a long sleep weariness is loathe to leave. Coffee is the answer, probably. The kettle is filled. Yawning goes with stretching: why is that? Strength 5 the packet announces. Full bodied, robust. That should rout the weariness, of which we are bored: this is inevitable. Tired people have little patience. Somewhere nearby a cow snorts. And we lack concentration, probably. Or decisiveness? Several more nasal expulsions follow. We drink coffee and pretend that bovines do not care for colder weather. They will not miss the horsefly bites though, no more than we will. Perhaps the snort was aimed at the back of summer? Their derisiveness is in vain for the sun soon burns away mist and makes hard cakes from mud.
Yesterday was bright with summer colours from the start. Little Granddaughter stomped welly boots to the riverside; nettle-stung, unphased, she stopped to pick a dock leaf and rub the injury away; charged with clumsy confidence out of one boot, two boots, on with swimsuit, arm bands, sandals. River rocks can be sharp or slimy, previous paddles have taught this. Before the weather changes before the river rises before the water temperature drops, we wade out further till it’s called a swim. She laughs in the pull, grabbing my hand, falling and laughing.
‘It’s cold!’ She says. ‘Let's do it some more times!’
When the thrill of cold wears off she lies towel wrapped next to her Granddad while her Granma swims deep and her Doggle shakes water which is hilarious and decides she wants a sandwich. Tall flowers make a jungle path back to the field. But first one must be dressed even though it seems tiresome. One must remember the nettles.
‘Did you like your first river swim?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ She detours to the hedge to eat blackberries.
‘Is there any bread left?’ I ask Mr. I am thinking about sandwiches.
‘One roll, perhaps?’
It seems amusing, somehow.