A snot-coloured caterpillar is punching holes in hazel leaves. Bare feet in sodden leather boots approach from behind, laces untied, and squeak away through the grass. Thigh rubs on thigh – swish, swish, swish – in waterproof trousers and the song thrush spouts its sweet blythe carol above clinking cooking pots that stack like Russian Dolls.
Heads, head, heads! Yeah miss, yeah miss! Crunching orange oak leaves underfoot and THWACK! A tennis ball to the chest with the shared groan of a throw left uncaught. Teenage voices crescendo a little too much and are silenced, but for a lone snigger, by stern adult tones.
The chemical scent of fairy liquid has dispersed. Cautious chatter returns whilst midges bite under my eyes and around my jaw. Just for a moment chaffinch wings whir somewhere near my right ear.
Conversation retires with the light. Electric toothbrushes follow, then tent zips, sleeping bag zips and hushed tones in small spaces.
Moisture ingresses. Dew soaks through socks at the big toe from the grey grass that I know to be green. Occasionally minute water droplets touch the sides of my fingers, although maybe only in imagination. Throngs of trees jostle in a chilled breeze I can just feel on my scalp and the tips of my ears. Their movement is white noise.
Vague greyish clouds sweep the blue grey sky. All is black and blue and grey and air and space.
Hati Whiteley 