It strikes me as I watch the countryside from the train that trees in leaf, uplifting as they are, have their downside. They hide the secret places of their trunks and branches as well as the fuller view of fields, hedgerows and hillsides, which you have from the train in winter.
In the corner of the Grove, the the big oak is shedding its long catkins, they fly in the breeze more or less vertical, and form little piles and drifts on the paths.
The melancholy sound of heavy duty brakes comes up from the London road as a lorry approaches the roundabout, the terrestrial equivalent of a whale.
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