Under a hotter Sun; Purple Thistles;

The paddock

We walked down to the river flats. All five of us shouldered hoes and bush knives.  We had the task to eradicate thistles, rushes and more weeds that had the tendency to choke the grass. Thistles grew in abundance. They were never in jeopardy by wild swinging hoes and bush knives by a bunch of determined Swiss declaring war to innocent weeds. Reg said, where thistles grow the soil is very fertile. What I thought was that Reg just wanted to console us, when he saw the task we had ahead of us.
While we hacked and slashed at the big whoppers,
my eyes strayed to the riverbank. The water dark and serene. Tiny flower petals fell gracefully and settled on the water highlighted by the odd sun ray penetrating the thick vegetation.

The heat, the buzz of insects, the monotonous task soon led me into a dazed dreaming.
The sunlight sharp like molten silver pierced my eyelids; there suddenly, I glimpsed graceful people whom had lived in this area a long time before us. The tall, proud men ahead, strode with long measured paces. Women and children with delicate limbs, followed, happily chatting and laughing .

They stopped in their track when they saw me. Their hands with long slim fingers flew up and waved. A very old woman gazed at me; fathomless, black eyes met mine.

The earth stood still, when she reached out and handed me a small woven dilly bag. I hesitated to take it. I had nothing to give her in return. She quietly pressed the gift into my hands a tiny smile on her lips.
My fingers curled around the small bag, felt the exquisite work of the woven fibres.
The chatter and laughter resumed, faded, far away the last tinkle of a child’s laughter died.
My hands hung empty, the fingers still curled around nothing. I felt bereft. The hoe left laying on top of wilting, silvery purple flowers.
The world returned to its endless chores. The buzz and hum of insects, the twitter of a bird, the flap of a wing, and the silent pursuit of underground creatures.
The heat continued its onslaught; sun rays radiated glittering stars into the sky.
Sweat trickled from my hot brow, pale rivulets on my dusty face.
I dried my moist face with my sunhat, blinked into the shimmering heat. I adjusted my sunglasses that had carelessly fallen to the ground and looked around to my family; they were busy at their task.
I gazed up to this immensely blue sky; swatted lethargically at flies and my spirits vanished when I looked at this sea of purple. The hoes went whack, whack and the purple heads fell to their grave. Their dry, prickly heads hold also trillions of seeds for next years crop. I shuddered when I thought of it.
The girls had enough and vanished, drawn to the cool, dark river that beckoned and promised relief from the heat and monotonous work. I listened to their noisy splashes.
Peter and I plod on, whack, whack slash one more purple thistle gone.
Our reward for this hard work came when letters from the abattoir said that our cattle were completely free of any residue of poison. Unfortunately we did not receive more money for our organically grown cattle. People were not yet talking about organically grown food.

(We were always a nose length ahead with newfangled ideas; which came much later worldwide into fruition with "slow food and organic food.)