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Fields of golden corn, shimmering in the heat haze
Acres melting into distance, seed heads waving in the breeze.
Vast machinery with a dark cloud rising. Tiny insects. A long, grey train
And you're daft to cycle by in white
At harvest time.
These field edges are sparse, bits of ditches, no hedges
Grass, tall and tough, that says "Up Yours!" to the world
That grows in deserts, on shifting sand, pushes through pavements
Not much company for grass on this sort of land
A few stray strands of oil seed rape,
From last year's crop, and a solitary daffodil, born
From that once they had a flower crop.
It looks tough too. It wouldn't sit easily in a vase,
Or on a lawn.
There's empty fields too - where you sense relief
We got the 40-acre in. A sensation of accomplishment beneath
Which a remembered grief. That year it rained and stormed
The wind was savage and sudden. Unpredicted - took the lot
Off old Vin. Took himself out with a single shot
Nearly took us for all we'd got. But we had the beasts here
They saw us through, but it was a very bad year.
It wouldn't do now. There's one thing you won't see
Round here. Beasts in fields. After BSE.
And for all the taming of space and time, there's still no magic button to press
To say six weeks of sunshine please
It's harvest time.
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