The moon is a half blown dandilion clock watching us on our evening walk.
We follow a trail of black feathers through the spinney where the air is oven still and out into a sea of yellow green quenched in light.
I point out pale flower bells bobbing at the side of the path, 'Look, they're so beautiful! But I don't know their name...'
'They're still beautiful.' My wise husband reminds me.
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