On the corrugated fence we inherited from unknown people who tended this piece of land before, shadows against the battered bright yellow make me stop and gaze. Around the claw of a bent hook, a left over string from tying up the towering Sunflowers that last Summer insisted on turning their backs on us and looking out across the neighbour's plot instead, casts a beautiful image. On the machine-made wavelets of the fence, the shadow of the string is like a captured moment of an arabesque danced barefoot on a darkened stage to a silent audience. It's unravelling twists are ringlets in the kind of hair I used to dream of having.
Beneath it, on the edging sleeper, new moss ventures out along the grain, like a tiny hint of parallel bright rivers that might one day run to a delta beneath that yellow wall.
I picked three leeks for the soup I have been waiting for, knocked wet soil from their pristine whiskery roots, could smell them all the way home.