Field Thoughts Poem by john (called jack) wren

The gentle humble rye doth bow
its tasty face before the cow
whose ever shifting nodding head
scythes it from its cosy bed.

Bands of tufted fescue sway
in a most delightful way
mesmerising woolly heads
trespassing on their beds.

Shep, with his collar of white
that tells all he has the right
to move you here and there
with direction and a prayer.

The shire with drumming hoof
loves to keep its head aloof
thinking of her proud birth right
holding high the armoured knight.

How can you pass without a thought
a meadow where it costs you naught
to ponder at God's creative charms
and hold it gently in your arms