Sunflower with watercolour wash on the ribs

The sunflowers you planted by the net shed came up on Tuesday, all at once, the way you said they would, and I stood in the lane with my boots still wet from the hold and felt daft about how glad I was. Mr Ashby says they're the wrong sort for this wind, too tall and too stubborn. I told him they're the right sort for us.

We're out again Thursday, two days on the Dogger if the glass holds. The skipper has the hold full of ice and the radio's gone quiet since Sunday, which he says is the set and not the weather. You'll hear about it from Bev before you hear it from me, so don't fret.

There's a bloom I keep thinking about, the big one by the gate, face turned to the harbour like it's waiting on a boat. The evening light goes right through its petals and it looks washed on with a wet brush, the yellow bleeding into orange, the green running down to nothing where the stalk gives up. I'd like to bring you one home in a bucket.

If the wind's kind, I'll see you Saturday, and you can tell me what the bees did with the rest.

Yours, Sam