I have always found something spooky about fields of wheat, or barley - I climb over a stile, and walk through the maturing crop, following the gnomic directions given in my book of walks - I can hear no sounds but the dry, unsettling, rustling of the stalks - I look up, to see a buzzard flying, with its slow wing beat, over a wicked thorn hedgerow - the footpath takes me through the heart of this mysterious domain -
But I find fields of maize especially troubling - there's something, to my mind, exotic and creepy about a field of maize - I imagine that I might find a Mayan temple, lapped by the maize - I think of the film Signs - I am sure that I can see dark figures, skittering amongst the man high plants -
Walking up from Kimmeridge Bay, we passed a field of maize - I paused, and stroked a broad bladed leaf - I could feel the green life pulsing in the field, archaic, remorseless - the wind suddenly stirred the maize - I could feel my heart, quivering in my chest - I hurried on, up the footpath, to catch up with Anne and Penny -
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