August, sunflowers



A shock of August cold. By 7 o’clock it was down to 12 degrees, a slicing wind, the skies like bruised ice. Earlier in the summer (such as it was) I’d walked through a farm of patchworked fields. There had been pigs rootling in a vast muddy expanse, bowed like a great furrowed half-pipe; over a stile, through a field margin knotted with hazel and hawthorne, there were successive rectangles of oats, barley and wheat and to the right a thick maze of maize, the cobs barely a fifth mature in their rough casings. The sunflowers, despite being only around knee height, were instantly recognisable. I made a mental note to come back. Now, after a week buried under what felt like a tarp of brooding panic, I needed some sun. I dumped the car on the field edge and climbed for some.



The wind was intermittent, but when it came, it roared down the slope, stirring the tops of the puddles. The pigs didn’t seem to mind, standing amidst chunks of revealed chalk and flint, impassive in their thick skins. So much rain had fallen that clumps of charlock and chamomile were swimming in pools. Over the stile, the wheat had been cleared and the maize was nearing harvest, the cobs now bursting at the enveloping husks. I could see the sunflowers in the distance, swaying in a collective mass of green, then yellow. Close up, their height seemed gangly and ungainly – like a child grown too tall too quickly. They seemed to huddle for warmth, turning the bright faces away from the teeth of the wind; but every so often the wind would stir them in a particular configuration and a hundred new heads would turn, the bunched lurching throng illuminated by a thin yellow nimbus. For a time it was possible to imagine a kind of deferred warmth but overhead the isolated knots of westering jackdaws and rooks had become a ragged band. Night was coming and I turned back to the car.

Beyond the hawthorn hedge the evening sank across the rough furrowed field. Most of the pigs had retreated inside their huts which stood in shadow like cavitied dentures. From a copse a tawny owl welcomed the coming night. The sun dropped below a reef of clouds and began a slow descent behind a ridge of chalk. I took a photo knowing it would never come out. The image showed mostly darkness but the falling sun had its own fierceness, trapped under the dome of the sky.

Dome of the sky

Dome of the sky

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