Empty plates lay discarded on the wooden slats of the table. The varnish glows in the sun, golden caramel, soft and sticky in the spots where it pooled as I brushed it on a year ago. I lift my hand off the wood. Baked under the strength of the noon sun, the surface has become unpleasant to the touch. I grab my glass of water, the liquid lukewarm in my mouth.
I walk to the shade under the whitebeam and sit in the chair next to my partner. The leaves flutter in the gentle breeze, flower heads bob over our head. I dart my gaze through the gaps of light and seek the dark streaks of magpies but I cannot spot any.
A small butterfly flitters between young flowers. I do not recognise them and I grow too lethargic to seek them out, observe and record their details for later investigation. They fly over the fence and into the scorched barren land of the neighbours' gardens.
I slump on the chair, watch barely formed clouds drift and thin in the sky. I have a long to-do list waiting for me indoors. My bicycle and I are booked on the sleeper train from London to Scotland in a few days time. I should get packing, sorting, charging, researching, and more I am sure. But I am loathed to move. The sun and accompanying warmth still feel new and luxurious after long months of wind and rain. I close my eyes, let my head drop back. The to-do list can wait.