The little mouse comes out and nibbles
The small weed in the ground of stubbles
Where thou lark sat and slept from troubles
Amid the storm
The stubbles ic’el began to dribble
In sunshine warm
Address to a Lark Singing in Winter by John Clare
FIRST light. Below, down in the village, a cockerel crows. Far away over the stubble of millet, a tawny owl yaps in the black wood. Otherwise, a world of silence.
The stars are still alight, alchemizing the puddles, which sprawl around the geometric precision of the strawy spikes, into silver mercury. Noughts and lines. There is a binary bleak beauty to a stubble field in midwinter. The millet heads were harvested, back in October, for flour.
It is breath-blowingly cold. First light is a strange time of day to be dog-training, but when otherwise is there time in winter, with its short hours of light? When? I have found there to be too much comedy in teaching a black labrador at night. In these very first monochrome moments of a winter’s day, she is at least faintly discernible.
The millet stubble comprises 20 acres, but the field is thin, so it is a long walk along the length of the rectangle to the wood. Perhaps five minutes. In my left gloved hand, a small portion of Emmental cheese.
Esta historia es de la edición December 16 - 23, 2020 de Country Life UK.
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Esta historia es de la edición December 16 - 23, 2020 de Country Life UK.
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