Do singing skylarks eat the sky? So many rise from this prairie of wheat that I wonder what fills their little bellies. Not the green grass of the emerging crop, for my jaded and jade-filled eyes see only sterility in the phalanx of leaves, and no corn. This one field, covering two, maybe three, football pitches in area, will eventually give us our daily bread, but it offers not a crumb to the larks.
The ground by my feet offers a band of hope, the slimmest of flower borders, never more than half a metre wide, that has escaped the sprayer’s boom. Banked up against the taller wheat, it blooms discreetly with colour and the busyness of insects.
