In some places the growth regulator has worked.
The barley perches waist height,
perfect cover for the pigeons that dive-bomb
grey feathers all a flutter,
deaf to the crow banger’s crack, crack, crack
as they land in the elsewhere places
of stems grown too tall not to loose their balance.
In the shadow of the sheds there’s warmth yet,
the sun is sunk but not quite set
and the sky has turned to rust beyond the track
where the tractors wobble outwards
for one last relay before dusk can claim day.
I’ve mixed two prompts tonight. DVerse Poets Pub’s challenge to write a poem about landscape while using verbs in an unusual way (I’m hoping I managed that) and today’s Daily prompt: Traditional. So here you have traditional Shropshire scenery with a twist.