Plaits lie on the field,
weaved in are speckles of yellow
soon to be haystacks.
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Woad
Rip the stinking leaves
And steep in boiling water,
To become a Celt.
Hawthorn
Dripping with icing,
An ephereal being
Stands in wor woods.
Blackthorn
Froth of confetti –
Belies the slice of sharp swords
In sloe-tinged petals.
The Cheviot
Ice white pillow hill.
Ma breasts laid bare when aa last
Waaked y’flat summit
Hazel
Pairs of gold lambs tails
hang like party lanterns,
shaking in the wind.
Badger
Aa leave peanut butta
spread alang the dead spring oak.
Black nose snuffs and snorts.
