Ploughing

A black back gull in regal splendour, stands aloof upon his throne
Jutting from the furrowed ground; a stone
and with dignity he does reign, from his pedestal over his domain
then with majesty does glide, soaring to the ploughs gleaming side
Then black back with his beady eye, a worm beneath him does spy
And with a swoop he does descend, upon the soils faithful friend
And banquets with the assembled host:
The black headed, common and herring gull, Jackdaw, rook and carrion crow
And pied wagtail, bravest of them all, darts beside the tractor wheel
And now the sun has gone away, set for another day
The richness of the colours fade, no longer illuminated
No more the glossy, sparkling gleam, dull, drab, solemn is how they seem
Then as I turn to plough another row
The host arise and circle high, cry farewell and disappear in the sky
and I am left to plough alone in thickening gloom, with constant drone
but then I see some lapwings flapping by
they land and bob around, upon the waved and crested ground
now the forest edge is black as ink. The stars above begin to wink
I see a fox slink across the field. Thinks in darkness he's concealed
and the daylight creatures cease their play. Silenced for another day
and I too think it's time to go
I drop the revs from howling roar to mellow purr, lift the plough out of the ground,
Slip into a higher gear and whizz off homeward bound.