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A field in Farnham

The field

The field

A graceful field arcs and curves
Into the very heart of the town.
Mrs Tice said that once, in the days
of golden harvest and waggoners,
the field grew the finest hops in all England…

Now the field is heaven for:
Dogs – and nettles and painted-lady butterflies;
And footpaths that come and go –
Tracing the fugitive-histories of walking;
A refuge for gliders and hot-air balloons;
A stage for kite-flying, a joy of treasure hunts –
And the happy happy cries of children running, running free.

We love our field.

I once counted twenty-nine different things people did in the field –
Not including the kissing.
And the skies!
The beauty of skies overhead – waiting to be painted
– as Mr Falkner did.

The skies? Sometimes the skies are like a battle…

Below, the field lies quiet and still – in the executioner’s hour:
The blunt axe of development – poised: Ready to strike.
‘Save our field’ the banner reads:
tattered, proud, defiant.

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