The fields are laundered sheets,

ironed and smoothed across the dale,

tucked under walls for the comfort of sheep,

clean green cloths that veil

the messiness of former days

when vetch outstretched untrammelled tendrils

randomly grappling floriferous sprays

of meadowsweet; when spangles 

of cuckoo-spit sparkled 

blobbish on stems of raggéd robin;

when there was miscellany; when buttercups speckled

rank meadows and curlews hung sobbing 

while farmers poisoned the lot,

ploughed out the warp and harrowed the weft.

Hunger for bumblebees. No nooks for newts.

The pallet where plovers once laughed

now rinsed of perfume and pressed,

monocropped in perennial rye.

A dearth of artistry expressed

in green chemical dye.

I miss the raw fecundity, 

the wonderful slovenly flobber of froth, 

eruptions of colour and manifest fantasy

from wildflowers that filled the troughs

between the hills, the plains

and pastures blemished where the flesh

of nature deposited troublesome stains.

My lust now is for redress: 

I want these fabrics sullied,

splatted with splashes of cuckoo flower,

smeared in cowslips, red clover bloodied,

ingrained to the subsoil layer.

Let us ruck up this smoothness.

Let’s wreak an impossible ravel of blossom. 

Bring back abandon. Bring back the rudeness.

Reignite the passion!