There was one day this week that was so dark and wet, I had to work all day with a daylight bulb on, in order to see my page properly. The rain lifted in the evening and I was able to get out of Cambridge to the higher ground above Wimpole. There were still storm clouds about, a tone or so darker than the undulating fields which were all mauve - planted with vetch - presumably as set-aside. Six beehives sheltered up against the edge of the woods, facing the sweet-scented mauve fields and in the middle of one field stood an mobile hen barn with gentle roosting sounds coming from it.
Mauve, more muted than purple, is a safe, quiet colour, peaceful to the eye - so the sudden cry of a fox in the woods came as a shock - a harsh deadly sound hurled at the barn, isolated in the middle of the mauve landscape.
My father described that sound as 'a scream of blood' in his poem 'Fox'