A half-ploughed field haunted, two tractors abandoned

figure the future; agricultural labour

has paused for a cider and a piss in the ditch,

to puff on a pipe and turn matters over,

late afternoon slumber in the shade of a hedge.

 

The cadence of branches, the rhythm of swaying,

mellifluous birdsong flatters the forest.

Dappled light on a tree stump lends the appearance

of fairy enchantment or deer at a distance;

whistle-blowers heckle notes of discordance.

 

Untrustworthy faces are tacked to the borders,

defacing the country, they shall in their order

grow beards and moustaches, pimples and glasses,

be coloured in every shade of the spectrum;

but it's crosses that count - the plight of the commons. 

 

How long befire birdsong becomes too intrusive

or passes unnoticed like shopping mall music

and trees, grown too tall for bowing and scraping,

snatched from the breach between earth and its ceiling,

groan and snap for the good of the greater number?