On the Day After The Birth of The Prince Of Cambridge.

Today, the plain,
at Ging gang Goolia parva
looked beautiful in the rain:
the turbines
in lines,
each cooling towers',
great girth,
dwarfed by the closer flowers,
brighter after showers.
Everything still
no cacophony of bells,
just peculiar smells,
emanating from long dry soil
newly wet.
And yet,
it was different,
each furrow and ridge,
of chocolate plough,
where there had been peas,
was slaking its thirst.
And at the wheat field's margins,
were seas
of borage, looking purple at first,
only blue on closer inspection.
And the reeds
at the edges
of the irrigation dykes,
were verdant,
a perfect foil,
for the willow herb spikes.
And each reflection,
was marred by oil,
which made rainbow distortions,
among the pond weed.
And the giant proportions,
of man's creations,
in this flat landscape,
were slightly reduced by the haze,
so that hogweed,
brown, and gone to seed,
was tall as the glass works at Glews Hollow
and close where phacelia merged
with the last of the oil seed rape,
(a very modern colour scheme)
one's gaze,
might follow,
a path from the tower of St John's in town,
back down,
along the weedy, track of dirt,
to rest on his curative, bright yellow wort.