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[Page 157]
There's fine dust on the road and a flowering of it on grasses of the wayside and on the leaves of hedges which close in garden plots by cottages of the wayside for it is summer and constant traffic of army transport mills it from the dry hardness of the way.
This dust cloud you completely [indecipherable] in a stifling mist, heavy with stench of horse dung for a moment whenever a motor lorry passes. But soon like the stroke of a great broom the scented breeze of the field sweeps it away and you behold once more the splendid wheat crop heavy in ripening ear pressing close up to the ditch on either side.
They are fine these crops though not extensive. Theres nothing extensive here except one vast extent of of little lands in crops all pressed close together like hundreds of squares and oblongs patches and strips of varied greens and pale ochres, resembling a mantle of patches more than anything else.
No fence lines separate them anywhere They In the distance they might be fabric fragments stitched together so close does one green press to another. There is scarce a [indecipherable] with the joined shades but there is a rich harmony of color and a beauty of variation with respect to harmony.