1 JULY 1995, Page 45

A Walk

Trees, stubborn to their roots, stare straight ahead, expressionless; mutinous, the bushes bristle with argument, while silence, purse-lipped, picks self-righteously along.

For two miles nothing is said. Perhaps we need a thunderstorm: a black-grape sky, some noise, electric jumps of light, bringing a green rain to drench the olive groves; a full rain to soften this red earth; a clean rain to touch us to the bone; something, at any rate, to make us see how far we've come, how far we are from home.

Beatrice Garland