Walking

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
poppies in the wheat field 
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 



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