The heat from the stone walls comforted her. She pressed her back hard against them, stretched out her legs into the long grass feeling its softness against her bare feet and scanned the fields and hills stretching out to the horizon. In the distance tiny dots of white pricked the green reminding her of Seurat paintings. She watched as a flock moved down a hill keeping together, following each other in a kind of synchronized slow movement, not exactly a dance but a kind of choreography.
To her right and below her was a hawthorn bush covered in white May blossom.
For the past hour the valley had been silent but then a truck motored round the curve of the hill and stopped by a farm gate. The driver got out and unloaded bales of hay then climbed back and drove off out of sight.
She lay back and stared at the sky. A buzzard hovered. She shut her eyes.
She must have fallen asleep because when she looked at her watch nearly an hour had passed. The sun was catching another corner of the field. The sheep had climbed back up the hill. Two young calves and their mother were feeding off the bales.
She got up and began the slow descent into the valley. A blackbird burst out of a hedge. In the distance a child’s voice rang out.
She’d had to return one more time. It was enough. She didn’t look back and just kept on walking.
Words: (flock bush heat walls voice driver soft)
Partly inspired by an afternoon in a forgotten field near Kirby Lonsdale