I.
Cuckoo spit sits
in the crooks
of stems and stems.

Four bright daisies
afloat above
a quilt of colour.

Some bird, anonymous
pips a warning
of our approach.

The dog sniffs
life, living
under every leaf.

All about us, tall wild flowers,
thistles have taken the field.
II.
Effort sends me
Tumbling
Over stones half buried,
Toes catching ground.
Nothing to see,
But flashes of
Life, fleeing at
My approach.
Birds don’t
Want me here.
Thistledown,
Feathers from a kill,
Trapped in dry clumps
Of earth and weeds.
Floating seeds
Seek purpose
Meaning, where
They, once,
Achieved flight.
The golden dry
Field of wheat
Stands tall, ready, open
For the harvester’s blade,
Leaving sharp stubble
To crack under
My heavy boots.
Roots, to be
Ploughed under.
III.
I have seen it a hundred times.
The weakened, culled
from the herd,
pinioned, raked by claws.

A derelict door swinging
loosely…