A nearby cuckoo calls in the river valley,
I'm lying, looking up at the clear blue sky;
As if a picture, framed by the vivid yellow oilseed.
I'm in the cool shade if a wheel track,
Yet the blooms above me are in early warm sunshine.
An occasional stronger breeze waves across the yellow,
And a light flurry of golden petals falls onto me.
Above, a high vapour trail cuts through nature
Reflecting that which the tractor has made.
Several distant aeroplanes sparkle,
Then a singing swallow circles above:
Its song breaking through the shimmering of the poplar leaves.