Scene-Shift

We have nearly forgotten
The country was once alive
With people tossing the hay
Hedging and ditching
Setting up stooks
Thatching the stacks:
And how, all over again
A horse and plough would turn
Stubble to brown,
Furrow by patient furrow.

It was no idyll.
Wives were utilities then
And men for life in bondage,
Crippled with toil.
But in that country
Field–folk counted.

Now it's a stage
Scene–shifted between acts.
A yellow monster comes.
Next day the summer stands
In giant discs
Ready to roll away.
A handful of wild flowers
Take refuge, like the Welsh,
In borders. Small brown birds
Jitter in jagged hedges.
Otherwise — this is a place
To take your car on Sunday afternoons.