A field where Fresians trample buttercups

A gnarled hawthorn hedge and then a ditch

An emerald slope adorned with clover which

Looms large before my window, up, up, up

Then perching on the top two cell-phone masts

Like sentries standing guard by any fort

Or exclamation marks, where swifts cavort

On thermals, though the sky is overcast

I hear the thunder's rumble in the west

The birds now quiet awaiting nature’s rage

The fizz and crackle of the masts attest

To binary storms of the modern age

The more from nature’s ways we disengage

The lesser chance her vengeance to assuage

Oli 28/06/08