Monday 18th May 1942

Drowsy afternoon at Gezira, lying on some genuine turf – it's kept lush by occasional artificial flooding – with our heads on a grassy bank. No noises, except for leaves rustling and the infrequent cry of “Fore!” from a golfer. Once I looked up beyond the crude gangster book I was reading, and saw birds wheeling and circling slowly in the cloudless sky.

“Alright here, huh?” I mumbled, “like English meadows.” “Yes,” said Jack, “Flower-lulled in sleepy grass.”

Two civilians walked past, Englishmen, from their speech. I caught a snatch:- “... lengthening shadows...” I looked at the shadows of the trees; yes, they had crept far out across the green. The shadows were surely lengthening.

“This time of day corresponds to my autumn, you know, Jack. I call it “lengthening shadows” in my diaries.” “Those two blokes said that.” “Yes, I know.” “Oh! I thought -” “No.” “They were talking about some prayer though, I think,” added Jack, “ “... Till the busy world is hushed.” Or something.” “How's the rest of it go?” “Don't know.”