Early summer, early morning. Very hot. As am i. Difficult to keep body and soul cool in spite of the river’s proximity.
On the fringes of town, a medieval stone bridge. Under one of its arches grows a fig tree. i like to sit at its base, appreciative of its fragrant shade. Glove like leaves enclose purple veined, ripening fruit.
Above the river’s surface, a whirlpool of flies and white tricksy dragonflies. A blue, more common variety, hovers under honeycomb rock. On the bank opposite, clouds of midges. And, beyond that, are the pot fields of Wilders. Regularly tilled, a low grade crop but high yielding – both in quantity and profits. River water has been finessed into taking all sorts of meandering courses. i surmise, from the wonkiness of these irrigation runnels, that the farmers smoke what they have sown!
There flashes a blue bellied king fisher. i am caught in its magic spell. To quote a marvel of Marvell:
The vicious air, wheres’e’er she fly,
Follows and sucks her azure dye..
Local farmers don’t compete with the luxury cannabis growers. They know their market, successfully enticing those Kannos on moderate to low incomes.
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