Life in miniature

I WENT down to the field beside the brook because tomorrow was the end of it. The corn-glow of late evening was warm on my neck and the dog at heel panted, tongue lolling. In the sky, the great icebergs of cloud were becalmed. We took the shortcut through the wood where the leaves, thickened by the lignin of ageing, provided shade as efficient as a gentleman’s black brolly; in the oaks, at least, it was cool.

We scrambled down the path, out into the open, and there below was my personal golden sea, 10 acres of it, unmoving in the heat, heavy with its