Such a random blooming of summer flowers

Sitting and thinking for hours and hours

My great aunt owned land, mixed farming, cows.

At Easter and Whitsun she rowed on Pickmere lake,

We robbed her pear trees in late summer - sugary, sweets infested with wasps

And all those cats,

I felt sorry for the mice and rats.

My uncle with his German accent and dirty, hard hands.

I just about missed the time of the horse 

Even then the diesel engine frightened the hens

But the moments of quiet were so fully replete

With undertones of my great grandparent's farming

Along Doomsday lines. They were only tenants.

And now the lot's been sold off for executive housing, as divorced from a Cheshire Mere as a rumbling stomach is  from a 5-course dinner.