He watched her doze. The silence oozed and dripped as thickly as syrup and emotion caught like pollen in his throat. He became aware of the majesty of the landscape, of the hard work and lives that had toiled before, hands that had left dirt and blood on spades and cups. And there, a bee clinging to the pink trumpet head of a foxglove, not resting, not feasting, but dead. A connectedness to all, that's what he felt. A rare earthed feeling of belonging. A burst of sunlight fell upon trails of shimmering web, linking all - the dead, the living - to the earth.