It’s July…

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?

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