Where they thrust through the rust-brick of hard ground
bristles of wheat stubble rasp against my bare legs.
I try to keep between the tram lines but the baked
earth presents obstacles of ridge and furrow
deflecting me from my chosen path.
The only sounds are the scuttle of tiny creatures,
moving from stalk to hotter stalk and the
crumble of crushed soil under my shoes.
No breeze, no birds. At mid-day all sensible souls
have found the shade and sleep through the heat.
I have a hedge to reach, a stile to find.
The squinting sunlight bleaches out the day’s
palate, washing it pastel, and sickly pale.
Only a solitary butterfly is left intact,
flitting brilliant orange and black.
I envy its flight and the breath of wind
its wings must surely make.