The world from my window

A squashed adder, flat, like a toy shop snake, lies in the road, its curving wiggle preserved for all time, or at least until natural decay and car tyres wear it away completely. There are horse flies bothering the horses and humans. Mares stand under the shade of leafy trees, tails swishing. My friend's dog, Martha, sniffs and trots through the fields, heading for Bluebell Hill. In Dorset, we're having a heatwave. In the Ionian islands, there's been sun and rain and twisters. One hundred people speak silently over telegraph wires. Vapour trails glide listlessly through the morning sky in dreamy white lines. Sheep graze, the sun glowing on their backs. And then a lost lamb calls to its mother. From the other side of the hedge, Mother answers: where are you, little one? And in a clear, Greek-flag blue sky, a solitary, wispy cloud, like a washed-out tide mark, stops for a while to take in the view. It's the Pastoral Symphony without the music. And the...