Ink sketch from this mornings visit to the farm.
The morning slips quietly out of the door, unnoticed, unremarked. The sky dovetails the sea, muffled wool blanket song of wood pigeons. As I walk the toggle on my rucksack, tick, tick, ticking against a sketchbook with each step. I reach the big heap of manure, twice my height. I lay the paper in the dusty earth and draw. Dark clouds gather, all of a sudden tip, tip, tap, tapping, the ink runs, undoing, blooming flowers across the page. I pull up my hood and look a cow in the eye.