Woe, alas, and lackaday, for it was the day, yesterday, when my last, my favourite, field of barley was harvested. There was the field, and there was what in my day "The Wurzels" sang of as a "combine harvester" doing its stuff, and slicing the grain from the stem, and dropping the chaff on the field, and the corn into a skip, which, as I looked at it - it was the size of a removal van - was full to the top. Is it too sentimental to say I was reminded of parents talking about taking their golden-locked kiddy to the barber's for the first time? Yes it is. Positively soppy. But I really do miss the barley, its shy, wilting, demure, heads, looking down from the sun in which they were designed to bask.
"Love is a many-gendered thing" as has been wisely sung, but does it include fields of barley?
It is a question that probably ought not to be asked.
No ears of corn of any species were harmed in the making of this nonsense.