In the courtyard outside the backdoor of a friend's cottage, I snap these objects arranged and assembled over time..
We are not troubled by the sound of aircraft here, though early in the morning and last thing at night, when other background noise has faded, we can hear planes approaching Gatwick . It is not an unpleasant sound and not intrusive, no more than a resonant hum, and it provides a pleasing link, as the jets home in, trailing invisible threads from America, Africa, the Pacific..
On the raised patch of grass outside the public library, a wood pigeon struts up and down, its amber eye glowing in the sunlight. In its beak is a substantial twig. You would think that it is about to fly off to a nest-building site, but no such thing. Up and and down it walks, with that peculiar nodding gait, which pigeons and chickens have in common. Is this some kind of mating ritual? Possibly, but the other pigeons coming and going on the grass take no notice. It makes me think of a dog, determined not to let go of the stick, which it has just retrieved for its owner.