The contouring grooves of ploughing sledges
That leave deep green margins at farm field edges,
Where in hedges, filled with the echoes of words,
The birds, they pluck fibre from herds.
A tattered tin trough where few think to drink water,
A ewe with twin lambs, her son and daughter
Soon due for the slaughter in late of June.
A bloom to be cropped on the harvest moon.
A swaying thistle that the winds will a whistle
Each spike, a whisker from a squirrels grey bristle
With bursting pockets of white fur lockets
Skipping out, rabbit tail cotton sock puppets
That sail where e’er the gales of air may wail,
They quiver along downs or down the long vales.