Jewels of the grass,
They are the crowning yellow of yellows.
They are not flakey flowers —
Cowardice does not lurk in their belly,
But a call to dance, to come and knees-up,
And a give us your chin up.
A shepherdly song saying,
‘Chin and mirror our buttery glow,’
And, hands altogether-now,
Re-love-love the fat of the land.

Written in May 2016 after walking with friends in Wiltshire fields and hills near Pewsey, before sleeping in the back cabin of their narrow boat, rocked by the ebb of canal, soft sound of Spring rain.