It’s July and the browning grasses are high
Along country lanes and tangled hedgerows
Thick with purple-headed rods of crooked foxgloves.
Spring’s dancing yellows are gone. Rose grows
Beside begonia, and buddleja, the butterflies’ friend
And I am at peace from my head to my toes,
As I rest in my chair, scenting the odours of Pembrokeshire’s air.
It’s July and the fund-starved farmers must try
With shiny new tractors and names like John Deere
To cut silage. Noisy but quick, squirting green streams
In a cavernous container, the ship of the field. The new buccaneer
Robs fields of grass deep and thick, afore it rains,
From clouds black and low, full-bodied drops, heavy and shear.
The weather’s so fickle. How did they, ere long, those grasses sickle?