Two 80-acre fields at Cookley, near Halesworth, with winter wheat
(shades of yellowish green, blueish green)
on clayland, undulating, empty - just the crop, the soil, the flint.
Setting for a cold wind.
January the last.
Beyond me in space: white gulls.
Gulls in flight, over the field's face, roving. A few standing, breasting the sun.
White owls over a green sea.
A skylark sings, aloft.
The gulls think downward. Raised on ocean-space and sprats, they turn to terrestrial matters: beetles and worms.
All beneath a milky blue and infinite sky.
They flutter to and fro: staring, stopping, turning to drop and rise - a mere second or two. Focused then refocusing. Steady meditation. Body thinking. Time.
How many are there – forty or fifty?
But who watches gulls - those dustbins of the bird world!?
One could map their delicate trajectories: a script of white on green. Their nodes and lines, objectified.
Instead, each bird enters my vision, enters my thoughts.
In this moment each one enters my heart.
Their wavering flights criss-cross my sight in a ceaseless, white-winged ballet.
They catch the sun, like dew on wheat and roof-lines in distant villages.