Along the battered winding hedgerow - And once a country lane - Where barely a century ago Lumbered slumbering wains. Every sixty yards or so erupt Stark poles for singing wires. At their rooted bases Hopeful thickets with briars aspire. Both sides though the tractor Has flailed all vegetation new grown, For here the infernal machine Dare not reach to get it mown.
Now all fruits and berries Giving life to overwint’ring birds Lie mashed, trampled and wasted, Disdained by ruminating herds. Finches, thrushes, fieldfares and redwings Must go short or move on; Their table scoured clean before them All hard weather forage gone. With no thought for those without, The farmer guzzles his warm beer; He feels a glow inside and grins, Job done, for another year.
But two fingered V’s of suburbia Reach out either side, Planed into efficient tidy Parodies of countryside. Each bustle of sportive wood - Not wild - spared by man’s erection Cringes, oblivious of farmers’ Endless reclamation. In the field, shuffling heavy hooves Pulverise and grind the grass, And no ghostly echo comes From heavy horse that never pass.