Sunflower tattoo on pale skin

The sunflowers along the allotment fence finally turned on Sunday, all at once, the way Mrs Pryce said they would. Their heads swing to the east in the mornings as if they are checking the lane for you. I have left the biggest one standing by the gate, the one whose centre has gone tight and speckled, like ploughed soil seen from the church tower.

I counted seeds on the old wooden bench last night with the kettle going. Forty-one rows spiral out in that neat knotted pattern, and I lost count somewhere past three hundred because the lamp kept drawing moths in. Dad would have laughed at me. He always said a sunflower head was the only thing in the village that could keep its arithmetic straight while the rest of us went to pieces.

The petals are going the colour of old marmalade now, their edges curling back and the dark veins on them dried hard. The wind off the wood has been strong all week, and every second morning another one lies flat in the bean rows. I have cut the big head and hung it in the shed to dry, and I will post you a paper bag of the seeds on Friday, so you can plant a row in whatever square of ground the city lets you have.

Don't worry that they won't grow. They always come up, even out of a pot on a windowsill. Write back and tell me which way your window faces, and I'll tell you when to sow.

Your loving sister, Ann