Busy In Pastures Poem by andrew wynne

Busy in pastures ablaze in the dawn
Swathed in the sweat of a dull copper morn,
Veiled in the shade of a harbourless cloud
Sharing the wind with a solitary crowd
of whispering willows where lambs lightly run
On pale milky meadows awash with the sun,
Or harvesting moorlands and high grassy ways
Thus ever to toil till the end of her days,
The red sinking sun sets on fields of green sheaves,
A scantling of goatsgrass and yellowing leaves
Where birdsong is hushed as the sky sheds her tears
And stars glide on water in trembling spheres;
Now she is covered in cobwebs and corn,
Now does she vanish as dust in the dawn.