Fifty shades of green

Coume  is a good word, it kind of wraps you up in greenness, is hidden and safe.  
I kind of want to be able to stay in one once lockdown is over; avoid the cafés and terraces and dead-end drunken conversations late into the evening, the broiling summer market place, where too many people shuffle around too slowly, the weddings you don't want to go to and the curfew lifted so you can't even get away. 
This coume was particularly beautiful.  A strata of trees, from the shrubby low lying stuff, through oaks and into pines.  
The last time we walked down this path a sheep was hanging off a fence, its hoof caught  in the wire.  I tried to free it but the bugger wouldn't stay still and its hoof seemed to have grown round the wire. We did all we could; the mayor and the village people got involved, but the farmer was renowned for his feralness.  
My grandfather always said you should go nowhere without a knife and a ball of string in your pockets.  Mine now have the above plus wire clippers and a corkscrew.
The coume spat us out into the village along with the angelus.  Someone was frying potatoes and eggs, which also reminded me of Pa.
Lately I've been realising that the hills and the coumes have been unaffected by the pandemic.  They are still here while everything else is closed and shuttered.  They will still be here when the dead-end conversations have died and the midnight glasses have been drained.  
I think I'll just stay in them. 

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