Ian M. Emberson
Poppy field
That late-summer view from the edge of the Chilterns, seemed, to my childhood mind, to stretch forever. The distance was all a vague bluish gray, merging imperceptibly into nothingness. Nearer too, the flat south-midland counties lay all before us: woods and roads, little church towers poking up, and fields - hundreds of fields. And most of those fields were pale yellow - corn fields - harvest fields. Some were pale green - some dirty brown. But there was one that was scarlet.
“The farmer won’t like that,” someone said.
And I looked down at the small rectangular field. Why he would not
like it my childish mind could not comprehend. It was red - no -
scarlet - a scarlet field - and full of poppies.
Page(s) 143
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