Watercolour archer on the ribs

The wind took the first arrow off the line at Hollin Fair, so I'll set the rest down in order before my hands stop shaking. Tobias Penn shot first, as always, and put his shaft in the gold with a grin he has no business wearing at his age. Then came Ada Marsh, who had picked clover and poppies from the verge that morning and woven them through her plait, saying a bow should be dressed for the occasion like a bride.

She drew without fuss. The horn of her bow caught the low sun and seemed to take on the colours of the meadow behind the butts, rose and marmalade and a green like new beech, and the string ran so fine against the light that the crowd forgot to cough. Nobody could say where the paint of the flowers stopped and the afternoon began. I stood at the rope with my pencil stopped in my hand, meaning to sketch her stance, and found I could only sketch the wash of colour.

The arrow flew wide of the butts entirely, sank into the hay bale beside the judge's table, and quivered there. Ada laughed, lowered the bow, and blamed the crosswind, which was true. The judges gave her second prize anyway, a jar of heather honey and a ribbon the colour of marigolds.

I have the pencil sketch pinned above my desk now. Underneath it I have written the only thing I was sure of that afternoon: the string sang once, low and sweet, and the meadow rose up to meet it. Come home before the frost.

Your loving father, Sam