Poetry by Clare Best

I've walked Woodlands with Andrew so many times, but each walk is quite different as weather, crops, fields, seasons, colours change all the time. I love the anticipation before we set off: we'll see this newly planted hedge or that crop about to be harvested, this machine I've not seen before, that new variety of brassica. The only constants are the place itself and the work of working the land. And Andrew's sharp eye, always alert to details, always looking for what needs attention next. This poem is dedicated to Andrew.

Walking the fields

beneath sun and hawks
he brushes through dog daisy,
creeping thistle, putting up
pheasant, pigeon, lark.

Carrots ready for lifting,
piece-work, 14p a bunch.
Squashes to weed -
Good King Henry must out
from among the golden trumpets
and where are the Romanescos, where

the rows of purple cauliflower?
Will rain flatten the peas
the first day of harvest? In this heat
can the blackcurrants hold
for a week?