Last year at about this time I noticed a wild flower in the wild corner of our little garden which I identified as woundwort. This year it seems merely familiar and I am unable to remember whether it is there by my intention or through chance. It is of course chance, last year's having returned with the summer. It is in fact to be precise hedge woundwort, a common enough wild flower, but what a pleasure to welcome it again and to be able eventually to put a name to it.
On a bench in the sun a lean, grey haired man is reading a paper back. He sips a can of beer. As I pass I notice a blue plastic bag at his feet. In it are six tall cans for steady consumption I suppose in the course of the afternoon. His apparent contentment is something I understand.