In the gathering dusk, two tractors worked the great field, harrowing the ploughed furrows into tilth, and with it the new growth which had sprung up since the harvest. The warm west wind which had blown all day threw up the scent of earth and crushed green plants. The tractor skirted the hidden culvert where the hawthorn and wild roses were laden with this year’s heavy crop of berries.The sky was pale. as the grey clouds processed to the east. I hoped the tractor would not misjudge the field’s edge and go into the ditch. Of course it did not.
I was elated for a moment. I’ve seen a whole year pass in this field, beyond which the hills are a great arc protecting our privileged patch. A battered plastic bottle had blown on to the red-brown earth. I retrieved it with my stick. I do wonder whether the current relaxation in building restrictions will see houses here.
It will probably be after my time, if it happens. But if it does, then someone else will see, from their home, those lovely hills. And I do understand that my home is on what was someone’s view, a generation ago.
I always think of the sea, but, as I look out across these wide miles, I feel tonight, that I could enjoy the ever-changing scene forever, as I might on a sea shore.
Just one moment, among hundreds, on our town’s by-pass.