The Initimate Heath

I went out latish for  walk after various wee bits of mending and making do. A fox. Lots of rabbits. The yaffle's cry from the dark woods.  The wood pigeons' insistent cooing. Grasshopers in the mild evening. A lone yacht beating into the narrows of the Strait, with a close reefed sail, thwacking into the short south westerly seas, a tiny pale mast light yawing this way and that.

I lay down in the closs-cropped downland heath of grasses and flowers, thistles and spreading thyme and marjoram. I focussed hard on the boat's progress, a solitary dark figure at the helm, a massive ferry looming in the distance. But this shot of the eyebright and the carline thistles in seed with the distant undercliff behind took my eye.