The black cur
Was hunting the new turned fields
Strips of rich earth
Between the standing rows of corn
When he flushed the morning doves
Flying hard across the hedgerow
Where blazed all the colors of the fall.
It was a scene worthy of Bruegel
Had the old master ever known
The colors of a new world.
Yet I marveled more at the farmer’s faith
For he was planting winter rye.
And I knew that before the doves’ return
And the golden grain
There would be the bulldozers
Like monstrous city pigeons
Whose success is unrivalled
Even as they die.
The houses would rise from earth entombed.
Acair Fearann 
Your poetry, like your photography, reflects a deepening synchrony with the land.
I rather like this (though it is dark) and I’d love to see a print of the swamp below.
Thanks!
The swamp came out rather well, especially considering I was taking it as a fast reference shot for something else!
I can’t write poetry that isn’t dark 🙂