In the summer, the untended land here is mostly too dry for weeds and no lawn can survive without almost daily watering. The neighbour moves his grand-daughter’s shetland pony around between the various empty gardens and fields, and she may not be in one place for more than a couple of days, depending on the grazing.
We’ve had rain now – torrential thunderstorms and strong winds – but not enough sun to bring the weeds on again, though no doubt they’ll be knee high again in a week or so.
At the moment, the orchard here is full of windfalls, so if I know where to find the pony, I try and take a few in my pocket when I walk into the village. She seems to associate me with the idea of apples:
The neighbour’s pony
ponders into view; a think bubble
the shape of an apple hangs
in the air above her head.
don't confuse the narrator 