Verdant pastures dotted with fleece
Roll down to the lapping Crouch
Rustle of mudflats, bustle of geese
Hawk pushing against wilful wind
Cobalt in the west, irongrey to the east
Church of Wiccan legend, thrusting above the vale
Three spots in the meadow, dwarfed by Beltane green
Crouching near the Crouch, rapt in season's warmth
Ears a-quiver, nostrils a-shimmy
Bright, sharp eyes aware and awaiting
The leveret safe, between the elders
Who lay with coiled-spring legs
And watch the broad and lonely vista
With senses of fire and life.
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