Rivers, meadows and long straight Roman roads,
or so the story goes,
fallen scarecrows and overgrown hedgerows,
no longer fend off nor defend,
any feathered flock of foes.
Fallow fields of corn bemoan the summer sickle swinging,
dry ears lay listening on the ground,
years of yearning for the lost sound,
of the mighty cockerell singing,
the sheep herd's groan, the harvester's drone.
Derelict canal boats drift,
past train wrecks rusting into nothing,
cesspits stink and the shit seeps into the soil,
burnt out farm machinery leaks oil,
down a cracked concrete path.