I wandered as the poet said, from
crowded city to escape
No daffodils I saw, instead field
upon field of yellow rape.
Gone are the hedges, oak and ash,
gone in the twinkling of an eye
How true the saying "Oil means
cash" but oh, I long for days gone
by.

When buttercups and cowslips
grew, when cuckoos called and
skylarks sang
When fields were green each spring
anew, when cattle grazed, and
church bells rang.

Each generation growing old, thinks
things were better in their time
But memories aren't always gold, no
age was free of hate and crime.
Turn back the clock? That can't be
right, hawthorns in blossom,
bluebells too.

Horse chesnut flushed with candles
white, then conkers in a month or
two.

Perhaps those fields of yellow rape,
say "sunshine" when the skies are
grey.
A flash of colour, through the
showers, like daffodils in
Wordsworth's day.

9:38am Thursday 8th May 2008

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