buddleia and brambles, and no doubt a share of discarded junk. It's just the sort of corner that catches my eye, reminscent of the bombed ruins that I thought of as countryside when I was a child.
Towering above the wheatfield is a windmill and when the wheat is ready to harvest in a couple of weeks time, bread will be made from a little milling machine.
the Dalston Mill, part of the Barbican's Radical Nature exhibition where I suffered such a severe bout of shed envy. Like Agnes Denes' Wheatfield, it provides a reminder that even the smallest slice of land, seemingly abandoned, can be fruitful.
Madeleine Bunting wrote about it last week, referring to the way that the arts can raise awareness of climate change and sustainability, and suggesting that projects like this may have more success in reaching those unpersuaded by the science. That remains to be seen, I guess. As far as I am concerned, having a wheatfield up the road, even if it is transplanted from elsewhere, lifts me - especially after I see lovely corners of the city wantonly destroyed. (I didn't mention the weedkiller applied to the land on Cable Street with the carpets of violets, leaving it completely barren. Or the willow tree that grew from a cutting discarded on a piece of waste ground, now smashed down. It makes me want to weep.)
wheatfields. More weeds and wild flowers. I'll put up with the hay fever.