Nowadays I find myself
In a landscape dominated
By farmer’s fields, they
Stretch from the country lanes
To the looming walls of oak
Where candidly they sit side-by-side,
All neatly laid out;

Eager for my foreign feet
To parade about, and
To dent the ground
In heavy, deep bruises
That one day
Will be overflowed by rainfall
Or, perhaps, dug further
By another stranger’s affection.

I am anchored to these fields
Of farmers who all look the same
And perhaps they are the same, all
Pushing for bigger harvests
And meatier offsprings, they
All follow the seasons
Like a blind man with his hand
Strapped to a gear stick, they
Are slaves to nature, and yet
I have not seen them comfort a tree
Or kiss their fields in which
They hope to nurture and reap.

But they are not to blame, no
They are not to blame,  

It is my unmoored conscious
That pollutes the soil
And whispers to the birds
And the unmoved snails,

“Go home now
And burrow away, please
Discard all your love
At the hollowed out trunk
On your way out”,

It’s not my fault
They only have
Fallen branches
Mixed with
Dried out leaves
To conceal all this
Unwanted tenderness
And grief, it’s
Not my fault they
Aren’t loved by
The farmers anymore,

So, why do I let them
Ruin my country walk ?

Why do I find myself
Chatting to the berries
That smother my shoes
When I show them
No remorse ?

I should really ask
The farmers what they
Think of all the ******, but
I do not think they shall
Let me walk on their
Fields again, I shall be
Barred from the
Country lanes and
From the homes
Of all my friends, my
Footprints shall be
Covered over
In sheets of ****** grass
And newly-budded flowers
So that my crimes
Are forgotten and masked.