WATTON

Fields

Fields. Viewed from my window as I look out from the bedroom, as I hang out the washing on the line, as I drive up the pot holed track to our house. I watch the seasons change as the crops grow, are harvested and the earth is ploughed again.

Fields. In my uni days, walking their length, counting hedgerow species, trapping small mammals and recording their weight, sex, length of tail, endlessly trying and failing to identify bird song, measuring, recording analysing.

Fields. Which we walk through, golden wheat and scarlet poppies, warm summer sun and autumn mists. Holding hands, watching the brown hare streak, listening to the joyful song of the skylark as it rises ever higher in the clear blue sky.

Fields. Of my childhood. Taking my Dad and Grandad their tea of homemade Norfolk shortcake still warm from the oven and cold tea in an old glass Robinson's squash bottle, tucked safely in our bicycle baskets as they bought in the harvest.

Fields. Of the past, burning the stubble, the flames scary yet exciting, leaping with the roar of a primitive God as they race along. Fields of today, with a single tractor, GPS, insulated and air conditioned.

Fields. As my story, the story of generations of farm labourers, of the landscape surrounding us, our work, our food, our pastime, our view from the window, the car, on foot, our life. Fields - as the season's change, as life changes, as the Earth changes.

Jayne