FOXGLOVE

There was not a note of birdsong, and the muted roar of the tractor sounded closer than the three fields away that it really was, its noise trapped and spread out under the layer of vapour.

The dogs said that scent was good, but we all knew that wild creatures would be holed-up and sitting tightly, for this is not kind weather for them.

A predator could sneak up through the swirling white and be on them before they realised, for sounds muffled and distorted do not warn the way that sounds in clear air can.

Above the mist hung an uncertain sun, yet to gain strength enough to burn off the mist.

When it did, we would have a fine day.

The devil's mark was on the late blackberries, but still I was able to pick a few for the dogs.

There was a bright caterpillar in the process of pupating, long sticky strings already in place to hang him from the thorned stalk of the bramble.

He would, if spared, become a quiet-coloured moth, no less beautiful than he had been as a caterpillar, but shaded in dun and silver-grey appropriate to a creature of the night. My musings were interrupted by a mighty crash of undergrowth.

For full feature see West Sussex Gazette October 17