Sunday

This Sunday morning early I went outside into my garden. I heard the loud clear song of the blackbird and the syruping lilt of the goldfinch. No traffic sounds - just the creaks of the world as it stretched itself ready for the day ahead.

On blackberry blossom near the dogroses, the bumble bees were busy, intent on nectar collection. There was the sweet scent from the mock organge, drifting on the breeze. The lawn was long enough to allow the clover to flower. Dandelions crept out, hoping to escape my notice.

Overhead two old planes flew past - their ancient engines rattling the sky briefly as they passed. On their way to Duxford perhaps, chasing the few white smears of cloud.

Back on the ground tall toadflax with purple flowers, also beloved of the bees, waved gently in the light breeze. My vegetables watered, fed and tended, I just watched the world for a moment.

The wings of the bird, the wings of the bee, the wings of the plane. The church bells rang - a long peal that could be heard for years, their sound drifted on hidden wings. Sunday morning, a precious moment for me.