I’m sitting up to my shoulders in mint. As I draw it I’m aware of wood pigeons cooing. It’s the wonderfully fat sound of English summer. As I listen, the cooing gets throatier. It gets deeper and more intense. It’s not cooing ,it’s wooing. I can just see the wooer and his lady in an ash tree to my left. He sings, she moves away. He adjusts his tone. She hops to another branch. He follows. He puffs himself up. He’s big and soft and every colour of grey under the sun. He trys again, deeper. She doesn’t move. He’s so deep and throaty now, I’m almost falling for him. She goes right to the end of the branch. He’s there next to her……the branch cracks and they scrabble to the nearest solid perch. He stands on tip toe and resumes his plea. Always the same old words but there can be no mistaking the meaning. She’s still resisting. I can’t believe he can go further. He’s producing sound through pure bubbling honey. I can’t bear to tear myself away. How much longer will she make him go on for? How much lovelier can his singing get? But I have to go. I leave the lovers to it and return home with my little drawing of mint which will forever remind me of the moving love song of a wood pigeon.