He said that the best time was when the
Wheat was just inches high in the fields.
Flat, rolled out land, naked to the sky.
Not for him was the joy of the windswept wheat,
The time when summer was dipping down for another year.
He liked the eager anticipation of what was to come.
The joy for me was the bend of Martin Dales,
For that was when I knew we had arrived.
Arrived for weeks and weeks,