Across a field of rye, stroking my hands through the soft, silken fronds

No man made sounds just the occasional cry of a baby buzzard learning to fly and the hum of bees. The ground is so parched that the second footpath is cracked.

In the yellowing grass I spot birds foot trefoil in yellow and orange

Butterflies dance alone or in pairs, occasionally alighting on a leaf or blade of grass.

The countryside is veritable heaven today.