String bags and ...(edit)

[cidermaid]

the capped letters give me no clue, though it could be me, sometimes they do make me faulter and wonder why they are so capped.

i still get corn or wheat fields being cut etc.

1st Edit

String bags and plastic wrap.

Slipping smooth green shafts past worm casts,
a long term ley is set aside for meadow hay.
Sun drawn and softly soaked, the root reaches of mice
and armoured ants are defined amongst the forested trunks
of cellular ranks. Swaying and eased by a seasoned breeze.

A badgered trail winds its way - a ripple in my sward.
A kiss of early summer mist, lingers with dew-dropped bliss.

Daisy ox, eyes me,
as I scythe my way through her outer ranks,
I am Roughly bit by the hawk, Commonly bent
yet Self healed by a Burnt salad.
The Cocksfoot crests the Dogstail and Small
Timothy beds his Lady’s straw, mindless
of Sheepish fescues festering under the Golden oats.
A pastoral symphony in perfect harmony,
a flowery flotilla of sensory notes.

Moving
from my hedged in shade I pass Plantained
Tufted hair, under-sown with lush leafed Clover. Yarrow leaves,
pleased to off-load the bumbled plunder of overflowing Butter cups,
pass on the kiss with downy, toe teasing tears;
a joyous rolling Gloria that glides with Sweet Vetched delight,
over Creeping red lipped carpets, a remarkable Lark, Swallowed
shortly before the final lift of the Swiftly following major fall.

Back and re-booted I mount my metalled beast.
Suitably geared, I to start edit each and every green celled note.

Guiding smooth steeled shafts through the sublime;
line by line, the opening chorus lifts before the final fall.
The sun reclaims her kiss. Redacted dew-dropped bliss
is withdrawn, softly sucked by solar soaked winds,
which pluck the laid out lines – now crushed and silent.
Tossed from side to side, each fragrant note
blanches under a final morning misted kiss.

The winter shadows fall and I pause as I close the barn door;
within, the contented munching begins and rising on the sweet
breath breeze, aroma notes are drawn from string bags and plastic wrap
and once again begin to sing… and I long for barefoot summer days.



Original post.

I fear this one is sadly lacking in depth and still needs a lot of work, but was just wanting to write something... so here goes!

String bags and plastic wrap.

Slipping smooth green shafts past worm casts,
a long term ley is set aside for a meadow hay.
Sun drawn and softly soaked, the root reaches of mice
and armoured ants are defined amongst the forested trunks
of cellular ranks. Swaying and eased by a seasoned breeze.

A badgered trail winds its way - a ripple in my sward.
A kiss of early summer mist, lingers with dew-dropped bliss.

Daisy ox, eyes me,
as I scythe my way through her outer ranks,
I am roughly bit by the hawk, Commonly bent
yet Self healed by a burnt salad.
The Cocksfoot crests the Dogstail and small
Timothy beds his Lady’s straw, mindless
of Sheepish fescues festering under the Golden oats.
A pastoral symphony in perfect harmony,
a flowery flotilla of aroma notes.

Moving
from my hedged in shade I pass Plantained
Tufted hair, under-sown with Clover. Yarrow leaves,
pleased to off-load the bumbled plunder of overflowing Butter cups,
pass on the kiss with downy, toe teasing tears;
a joyous rolling Gloria that glides with Sweet Vetched delight,
over Creeping red lipped carpets, a remarkable Lark, Swallowed
shortly before the final lift of the Swiftly following major fall.

Back and re-booted I mount my metalled beast.
Suitably geared, I to start edit each and every green celled note.

Slipping smooth steeled shafts through the sublime;
line by line, the opening chorus lifts before the final fall.
The sun reclaims her kiss. Redacted dew-dropped bliss
is withdrawn, softly sucked by solar soaked winds,
that pluck the laid out lines – now crushed and silent.
Tossed from side to side, each fragrant note
blanches under a final morning misted kiss.

The winter shadows fall and I pause as I close the barn door;
within, the contented munching begins and rising on the sweet
breath breeze, aroma notes are drawn from string bags and plastic wrap
and once again begin to sing… and I long for barefoot summer days.

---

Hi Billy,
I think I will have to put this one down as a bit of a miss. I guess that the idea is flawed in that it is too regonalised.

As my intended images seem to be lost in translation (although yours are close) I will make a brief show n tell note and then have to decide if i should give up on this or try and re-work it in some way.
Will prob abandon this as the central idea is to key to the rest of the lines. (Also was really only an exercise of desperation - life was really crap and so was my writing inspiration, this was an attempt to break free...it sort of worked because at least i'm back to reading & criting again).

So this was meant to be Hay making. Trying to show the switch in thinking from a farmer perspective. 1st the love and appreciation of nature and then the comercial cropping process and then finally the final consumption of the product...all of which hav e thier own satisfactions and are subtly linked but very different actions.

The capitol thbing is where I prob went wrong - they are all long term ley grasses, herbs and flowers found in a traditional (English) hay meadow. (Rough Hawk bit, Plantain, Sheeps fescue, Common bent, Ox eye daisy, crested dogstail, Lady's bed straw etc.). I then semi corrupted the names to make a sort of story line...but it obviously dosn't work.

Thanks for taking the trouble to read this through again for me and leave some feedback, appreciate the input.
AJ.