Early morning, sliding doors trundle open, smell of petrol and fertiliser. Dark cavernous space. Turn lights on. Dull. Cold. Light. Cold tractor. Prime the engine. Turn the crank. The engine kicks. I prime the carburettor again, diesel fuel drips onto the concrete, and is soaked up by the dark damp sawdust. I crank engine again, smoke explodes from the exhaust. Here we go. Tractor comes to life, and dies. I crank again this time it runs. I slow the engine with the hand throttle. It's ticking over. I slide back the shed doors wider. Back the Massey Ferguson out into the cold wind, turn, stop, look across the playing fields of dew, distant trees disappearing into the mist, the diesel engine splutters into steady life, first gear, double de-clutch into third, alongside the rugby pitch, work cast, faded white lines of lime, towards the harrow and to begin my drive into the day, into rising sun, lines on the ground, worm-cast scattered, lines to re-marked. Riders on the Storm, plays on my mind.