There are vaster fields, in Fenland spaces,
In cabbagey and cauliflowery places,
Where, as the drying August days unfold
Appear cylinders of hay in pale gold,
Seeming low against the broad, flat ground,
With nothing but azure blue all around.
But in the vale of York, the fields are less wide,
And thus the hay bales seem packed in more densley,
Each like the other resting at his side,
Pi r squared h created more intensely,
Which makes a rather pleasing summer scene.
As the evening shadows start to creep,
It lends something to the landscape more serene,
Presaging autumn and long winter’s sleep.
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