in time's eye

 

The May month burgeoning through the heartland.

Lovely scents drifting from the hedgerows.

New mown grass.

Birdsong.

Cattle lowing.

Lambs.

It is like that splendid Summer which is supposed to have preceded World War One.

A last lingering moment of innocence.

The nights seem heavy to me.

I step into the fields and there is a hush, not the hush of Christmas but a deathlier hush, like some sort of ominous warning written in the night air.

There is a time when even the prophets fall silent.

When it's too late.