Elegy To A Meadow

The meadow land is fallow Below a carapace of sorrow, Bright summer hues subdued And green supplanted by Industrial grey, Low buildings rising Cold as tombstones Where once the coppices of beech Bid fiery welcome And the oak trees soared Compelling wonder And the spirit of adventure. Where poppies' scarlet arias Regaled the choir of marigold, Of oxeye and the sapphire cornflower, And patriarchal teasel, Their cups brim full of water, Became the playground of the raucous sparrows, And all around us bees With fruitful industry Hugged the bugloss and red campion. The only buzz I hear is that of saws In this field of fallow. Where are the sounds of yesteryear?