Faux pas

Fresh, across the heath; the sun slanting down, or, more commonly, lighting the long mackerel cloud ribbons from behind, like the chest X-rays of uncoiled pythons.

Only out to loosen cobwebs, I cut corners, making a diagonal to the path’s triangle. Here, wartime cultivation has left a landscape of narrow ridge and furrow; spongy underfoot, now the hot, dry weather has moved on, tending to puddle in the dips.

I took to leaping these linear lakes across my way and, as they grew wider, I picked up speed into a loping run, carrying me from crest to crest. I was just considering the interesting juxtaposition of the ridged ground and the lenticular sky, when I found myself half propped on an elbow, gazing upwards, feeling water gently seeping into my trousers. I soon got up.

I skulked and dripped home, squeezing muddy streams from my cuffs, feeling more water drip from my back down my legs. The clouds were losing their keen edged definition, morphing from bones to the end of the cheddar, after the grater has passed.

I took my jumper into the shower, still smiling at my foolishness.