Overnight, loam has been churned.
A fresh furrowed field before me.
footpath now forgotten, land lost
thanks to vast machines that chew
and crunch, split fresh green shock
into parallel mounds of uniform brown.
But a monarch still goes
where it pleases,
wings of eyes and flickering flame.
Dandelion clocks, half extinguished
persistent ground elder
and carpets of clover
still thrive on edges, under dry stone walls.
Wishing for lighter boots, I take a step,
Press down petals and blades into soil
when they yearn to stretch skywards,
start a new desire line.