On Burton Lane

It doesn’t really
Lead anywhere,
The lane where we live.
Except to the chapel,
And the mushroom farm,
At the end.
We see the tractor
Or the odd lorry
Chugging up and down.
And on Sunday
People pass on their way to worship,
Or walking the dog.

Behind us nothing
But a hayfield
And the scent of
Wild flowers
Rustling on the breeze;
We can see as far as the fallen tree,
And beyond,
To where the sun rises in an orange glow.
As the deer and rabbits play,
And the birds pick
Off the ripe strawberries
One by one,
It travels lazily
Staying with us until dusk,
When the owl wakes
To sing
And the church bells
Ring
In the distance.

And in the dark
The foxes
Bark,
Whilst the badgers
Noisily dig up
The vegetables
And raid the compost bins.
The moles excavating
Underground
Pop up and down
Leaving piles of churned
Up earth on display
As they make way
For the Chugging tractors
As the dawn breaks
On Burton Lane.