The cicadas ached and danced and clicked as they made love, the tall grasses veiling their passionate embrace.
(Or perhaps it was just my imagination. It's Scotland, after all.)
Pansies turned their faces to the sky, disapproving of the marigolds who were not yet in full-bloom. The woman next door pushed a lawn-mower in horizontal stripes across her lawn; the grass-collecting compartment filling much too quickly with the lush growth of the first of July. An intermittent drill whirred from the garage opposite.
Such a jingling cacophony of midsummer sounds led me outside, barefoot, my feet inhaling the warmth from the hard flat surface of the patio flags, coming to rest in the deep-down dew of just-cut grass.
It was the kind of afternoon where you could imagine something happening. Something significant.
But it didn't.
Instead Vera Lynn trilled from a top-floor window, wafting through the too-tall hedge, irritating ladybirds a-quiver in their leafy realms.
A daisy pricked at my heel as an Easyjet flight - probably bound for the Canaries - flew right over my head.
And so. A cacophonous midsummer interlude.
Pointless really, except, well, maybe you needed a little interlude from your day?
To smell the smell of fresh cut grass and dream a dream of being high up in the sky forging the flight path through the clouds on your way to a place where they really do have cicadas. Perhaps you're already there. In your head. With your inside eyes.