I must admit . . .

. . . I do like a nice lawn.  It sets off the flower beds so well.

But I do have mixed feelings as I'm trundling along with the mower and the crickets, grasshoppers and moths are fleeing ahead of me. So I trundle slowly.

And it's the bees I especially worry about.  There's the forager bee back at the entrance to the hive dancing her dance of the clover patch and off sets the rest of the hive in eager anticipation to find that the patch is now a short stubble of barren green spikes. So I tend to skirt round the clover - which rather negates the look of a "nice lawn".

I can't help feeling that it was a man who invented lawns. "What we need dear is a nice green sward to set off your potager. I'll let the sheep roam over it. It'll look a treat."  And thus was born the industry of scarifying, top-dressing,  raking, spreading of noxious substances and, of course, frequent mowing, strimming and edging with acres of DIY and garden centres devoted to large green, noisy, smelly machines. Testosterone paradise.

Another thing. . .  Whoever thought it was a good idea to eat an artichoke heart, rather than let it become a wonderful thistle head and bee paradise?

Summer Night Sounds

Monsieur F's water canon pulses across the maize in the field up behind the house: swish, swish - swish, swish - swish, swish. Like  a heart beat.

Fat rain drops spat on the just-open window and the curtain stirs in the current of cooler air.

Thunder murmurs in the distance. A soft growl rather than a real threat.

A lone car whooshes along the top ridge in the dark

Remote shouts and gun shots echo from the lounge as Guccio and his master watch bad late night television  turned down low so as not to disturb..

Vita shares their space and scrabbles at the carpet, trying to hollow a nest before settling down again with a thump and a sigh.

Bertie sleeps on the bed behind me in the gloom beyond the light on my desk.  He breathes so quietly I forget he is there.