The wheatfield near to the house is like the lounge wall in some forensic procedural: faded beige, pale as sand, spattered with poppies in sparse swathes, waiting for some agricultural pathologist to decode its secret tale. The Mighty Hunter snuffles his annoyance at the cut stems in the path, sharp as scissors and pokes his nose into the crop although he knows not to enter. Lady Snoutingdingle suddenly expressed sadness that she had seen and not been able to capture the crop weeks ago, lush green and waving on a day of stiff and restless breezes. I realised that I had captured precisely that scene on precisely the same day. So here they are, the wheat in the green, stirred by rain and a motile breeze, and the same field still as a rock-face, thirsty as the desert, begging for the blade to set it free.
