The Main Cages
“Ivor Dawkins, forearms red and sunburnt, shirt half-open to the wind, had been bouncing in the seat of the binder for hours, for days, for weeks. But here was the last half-acre of the last field, and the summer’s work was done.
For some time he had been watching the Golden Sands. He had seen her pull away from Porth quay, cross the harbour and enter the open sea. On the up-rows he saw London Terrace and the pipe-smoke clouds above it; on the down-rows the sea and the single yellow shape pitchi...ng across it.
Neither occupied him. Nothing occupied him very much except this last harvesting, this last oblong of oats. He watched the flails and the horses’ heads and listened to the whirring of the canvas belt as he reached the terrace and turned for the down-row. The yellow shape was a little further to the right. He wondered idly, who would get there first? Would he have cut the last stalk before the boat reached Pendhu? Or would he still be sitting here in the binder’s seat as it came inside the rocks and disappeared round the headland?MoreLess
For some time he had been watching the Golden Sands. He had seen her pull away from Porth quay, cross the harbour and enter the open sea. On the up-rows he saw London Terrace and the pipe-smoke clouds above it; on the down-rows the sea and the single yellow shape pitchi...ng across it.
Neither occupied him. Nothing occupied him very much except this last harvesting, this last oblong of oats. He watched the flails and the horses’ heads and listened to the whirring of the canvas belt as he reached the terrace and turned for the down-row. The yellow shape was a little further to the right. He wondered idly, who would get there first? Would he have cut the last stalk before the boat reached Pendhu? Or would he still be sitting here in the binder’s seat as it came inside the rocks and disappeared round the headland?MoreLess
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