Backround: Ploughing On A Sunday

I can remember the wind, smell, the white cocks all around the tall grass. I used to spend the summers of my childhood watering the fields. Sitting on Grandpa Wally's lap as he let me steer the wheel with the assistance of his of his long skinny legs pushing the pedals. The diesel poured from the exhaust tip, it sounded like a distant trains horn screaming. I helped plough the fields in the early morning when moonlight had yet to cease for the day. Everyday after supper Wally and I could sit on the veranda, listening to the wind pour through our souls to the grass where it made the distinct eloquent rhythm.