No slow, coal black sea here,
only the rumble of a distant, lone tractor;
that smokes like a dragon, moving
across these waving, harvest fields.
Alone now, walking,
I avoid the meadow flowers
that tumble myriad colours.
Daisies smile yellow and white,
waving a welcome.
Buttercups glow under my chin
and tell me... I like butter.
There is pollen in the air
from the tall grasses, bordering
the neat hedgerows.
My path well trodden, dissects
the distance...