Elegy To A Meadow Poem by Tom Billsborough

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?