The grass is high. I used to run up the hill and hide so that I could spend some time alone with the butterflies and beetles. I would scamper away holding my skirts; not far as the grass had sprouted enough that you could tell whether it would be a good year for hay. I would look round and crouch among the fronds before anyone would catch a glimpse of where I was. I would lie down with the stalks swaying on the breeze, making the fields look alive with rolling waves breaking against the hedgerows.
Colours would flash by me, browns and greens, shield bugs landing precariously on the seeds not knowing if they were ready to drop, admirals competing with the poppies as they bobbed over my head. I could hear the men calling, frustrated that I had disappeared but for a short time they would have to pull their own beer: I was dancing with the currents and watching the buzzards float until they had sighted their prey.
Although, here the grass is long, calls and shouts floating in from afar come from courts mown short with athletes competing for glory to be reflected in the intricate gold work of a cup and the silversmiths skill upon a shield. We celebrate their skill here with Pimms and strawberries, their reds taking me back outside to the fields, the nodding poppies, the flitting fairy wings of butterflies. Come to my George, let me take you back to a memory of times long gone where I could still chase the winds.