Chasing gatekeeper butterflies through long grasses where the ground steams with the midday heat. The light is white. The colours have not yet been bleached by the long summer days but they slide away beneath the dazzle of the sunshine. I sit on warm earth and feel daisies and pimpernel knotted beneath my palms. A little body leaps and rolls in the swaying ocean of grass. Time lifts and dissipates in the breeze. Today is all there is, weighed down by the heat.

We clamber over granite stiles and watch ants busy in their dusty hollows. We linger to watch the swallows. Small fingers sneak between mine, clasping tightly, proof of us. We are alone together and the sun is warm.

On the road I walk on before I realise the small body behind me is crouched low, peering into shadows. Three six-spot burnet moths dance in the shady under storey of the hedgerow. A female (the largest of the three) seemingly indifferent to her two suitors, fluttering like tiny black hummingbirds. They pretend to be busy drinking nectar whilst never once resting the black blur of their wings, trying to catch her eye to wow her with their stamina. While I watch the drama unfold my little companion is gone again, her attention rolls further along the lane. I follow her.

A slow worm lies on blistered tarmac. I can see before I get close that it is near its end. Its body is dull and loose. I hold back inquisitive hands and point out the bloodied marks on its head. A lost catch. We glance upwards searching for the frustrated kestrel who must be missing their meal. The slow worm is not quite dead. I move it gently to the verge while little brows furrow in concern. There is no way to save it, I say. I squeeze her hand. It’s OK. I wait, for tears, for questions. Poor slow worm— she says, solemnly. Poor kestrel— she sighs.

And then she is gone again, skipping ahead, dragging fingertips through the young seedheads of the hedgerow.