On top of the hill we walk together while a great buzzard wheels and mews then hangs on the edge of the wind. I wish for wings.
The rock is becoming a stage for flowers. Foxgloves grow tall and bees dip in and out of their speckled purple cups.
Stars of purple-blue squil still hold a reminder of spring. Soon the cuckoo will be quiet again, then away for another year. For now the sky is stitched with a pattern of swifts in flight. We sit on the cusp of summer.