Going to the Country -revised

[tectak]

Revision

A half-ploughed field haunted, two tractors abandoned
betoken the future. Agricultural labour
has paused for a cider and a piss in the ditch;
a puff on a pipe to turn matters over,
late afternoon slumber in the shade of a hedge. I have read this piece through many times and will try a stanza by stanza. OK. I don't really "get" the "haunted" (spiritually compelled to revisit by memory, manifestation of a spectre, usually long dead) definition that you have in mind, but I am equally sure that you do. The "betoken"-ing is seriously diminished by the actuality. The buggers knocked of for a pee and puff. Hardly portentous but the imagery of the thing is way above the context

Light dapples a tree stump and lends the appearance
of fairy enchantment or deer at a distance;
the cadence of branches, the rhythm of swaying,
melodious birdsong flatters the forest.
Our children and dogs heckle notes of discordance.Now I really must take issue with the cadence of branches. You are not so determined to hoodwink your reader into false interpretations that you would use "cadence" (as my friend does, but he wears tights and a gusset) to indicate how fast a cyclist rotates his pedals....no...I thought not;so it must be the musical analogy. ....huh?....OK the branches are pedalling along. See if I care. The rest of this stanza is over-egged romanticism to no real purpose. I am now very suspicious of you word choice and my concern is born out by the "flattering" of the forest by birdsong. The trouble, I think, is the necessary anthropomorphising of the forest in order that it can be receptive to eulogy. Alternatively, you may be implying that the forest is somehow made to appear better than it is because of the birdsong....and I know that is an acceptable use for the word, but as I said.....I am now supicious of you intention. Note. Some make it clear that they strive to be unclear, clearly, you are not of that clique?

Fair-weather features will be tacked to the borders;
defacing the country, they shall in due order
grow beards and moustaches, pimples and glasses,
alter complexion from top to the bottom
for the crosses that count - the plight of the commons. I have tried, believe me I have tried. Give me a clue. Eight letters beginning with ? Oh, go on....just one teeny clue. This is a difficult stanza. I am getting weather maps, I am getting wind-turbines, I am getting political dogma, I am getting no where. IMBM.

Tomorrow this birdsong might be too intrusive
or pass by unnoticed like shopping mall music
and trees, grown too tall for bowing and scraping,
snatched from the breach between earth and its ceiling,
will groan for the good of the greater number. Let's end on a high. This stanza sounds good. In fact, I like it. I like it because most of it means something to me. It may mean something else to others but does that really matter? Oh, by the way, what DOES the last line mean.

Overall, I got lost. Seems to me to be written on the hoof with no real idea where it was going until you locked on to the birdsong/environment/global warming/population explosion and thought you would bend it into the barrel. Some nice bits but lacking homogeneousness. I will ALWAYS cry foul when free verse fails to deliver clarity, as without the requirements of the discipline of rhyme there is no excuse for cryptic content....at least no reason, perhaps. Just for the record, it is a minor sin to confuse me....I am easily confused, but just as easily pleased.
Best,
tectak

Original

A half-ploughed field haunted, two tractors abandoned
betoken the future. Agricultural labour
has paused for a cider and a piss in the ditch;
a puff on a pipe to turn matters over,
late afternoon slumber in the shade of a hedge.

Dappled light on a tree stump lends the appearance
of fairy enchantment or deer at a distance;
the cadence of branches, the rhythm of swaying,
melodious birdsong flatters the forest.
We bring children and dogs and note the discordance.

Fair-weather features are tacked to the borders,
defacing the country, they shall in their order
grow beards and moustaches, pimples and glasses,
be coloured in every shade of the spectrum;
but it’s crosses that count - the plight of the commons.

How long before birdsong becomes too intrusive
or passes unnoticed like shopping mall music
and trees, grown too tall for bowing and scraping,
are snatched from the breach between earth and its ceiling,
to groan for the good of the greater number?