the sound of my feet on the hard baked ground
is almost as loud as the noise from a passing plane
hanging
as if suspended by a piece string
high in the quiet blue sky
full with holidaymakers off to far flung lands
the distant traffic joins in with the bird song
hear the low murmur of a far-off tractor working the land
the silent rays of the early morning sun catch the buttercups in the hedge
golden yellow adding to the palette of greens and browns
islands of red in an ocean of young verdant wheat
silently growing
soaking up the suns rays
slowly turning golden
and swaying
sending waves
rippling across the field as we walk by
