Gone to the Country
A half-ploughed field haunted, two tractors abandoned
beckon the future. Agricultural labour
has paused for a cider and a piss in the ditch;
a puff on a pipe to turn matters over,
late afternoon slumber in the shade of a hedge.
Light dapples a tree stump and lends the appearance
of fairy enchantment or deer at a distance;
the cadence of branches, the rhythm of swaying,
melodious birdsong flatters the forest.
Our children and dogs heckle notes of discordance.
Fair-weather features will be tacked to the borders;
defacing the country, they shall in due order
grow beards and moustaches, pimples and glasses,
alter complexion from top to the bottom
for the crosses that count - the plight of the commons.
Tomorrow this birdsong will be too intrusive
or pass us unnoticed like shopping mall music
and trees, grown too tall for bowing and scraping,
snatched from the breach between earth and its ceiling,
will groan for the good of the greatest number.
Ray Miller © 2015