The custom of the country

For the NaPoWriMo prompt, looking at a meadow not with the eyes of a developer.

 

Meadow

bounded by hedge and stream

and tall trees swaying

not grass, not much,

but flowers

buttercup dandelion vetch flax bugle salsify and orchids.

So many orchids.

Pasture never worked

never ploughed

a piece of ancient farmland

untouched except by hoof,

and the swift pads of hare and fox.

Rodent-burrowed and fissured by contraction

into tiny tectonic plates

running with water

seeping hollows full of marsh plants.

History treads here

silent as nightfolk

holding its breath

for the future is coming.

 

The future sees building plot

house in breeze blocks and pvc

swimming pool and shaved lawn.

Does anyone care

if the nightingales will still sing

in Monsanto-perfumed air?