Virtual Fields

Sun Breaks over Oak,
Pushing back nights dark cloak,
Who's fingers black the colours do choke. Grass glistens with dew,
Waits to wet the clumsy shoe,
Cascading out a rainbow hue. Spiders weave silken thread,
Broken where things do tread,
To hunt, browse or cover fled. Fieldmice cling to stalks of rye,
To nibble then listen for hawks cry,
Who's hunting means they may die. Butterfly's dance on flower heads,
Sipping nectar that is shed,
Then dance to to other pollen beds. Raynard prancing through the fog,
To pause at moles earthy sod,
Ears pricked with nose to prod,
Into mounds where cattle trod. Wondering at what I see,
Myself I ask, how can this be,
To spoil nature's past reality. Save programme, sighing wanting to see more,
I turn, I leave through the hologram door,
Saddened by the world we have no more.

by Keith R. Hirons

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