We’d wander in Long Meadow
under Froggat’s sunny brow
when May was bright with buttercups,
clovers and cuckoo flowers.

But flowers make poor fodder,
the new farmer swears. Now
lambs fatten on the meadow
– they mowed it earlier last year.

And crossing the flat meadow
I want to peel its sour green skin
reveal the waiting seeds within
so all the tangled vetches grow again

and ladies’ smock and campion,
cranesbill, harebells, plantains
with bees and beetles foraging.
I want the meadow sweet again.

I want June’s gaudy orgy back
with hover bugs and ladybirds,
high grasses live with damsel flies.
But only horseflies feed on turds.