There is no sign of night falling in the Night Planted Orchard tonight. The sun is warm although it's late and the air is still thick from the long torrid day. Hoverflies sit in the gellid air like fat fish floating in a stream of hot water. The heavy seed heads of grasses nod in the wind like the heads of lolling dogs. Butterflies flop exhausted from drooping flower to drooping flower. Long streaks of sunlight make buttery stripes across the grass. The new fruit on the boughs hang like great drops of green liquid dripping from a sodden wall. I hear the thud of a hot labrador dropping into the grass but I know that he is a ghost. Mrs Snoutingdingle has taken the dog on a tour of distant friends and relatives because, recovering as he is, he has become listless and housebound.
Like the missing arm of the half-rotten chair that I'm sitting in, I miss them.