The tree's were the first to go on strike
in solidarity with the memory of blue skies,
the many greens of bushes, foxgloves pink and hearts of heather.
All the insects picketed. Fed up crows
fly-papered the day with a dust of hope as
over fog riotous geese called down their comradeship to the grass.
While the sad striking sycamores and oaks
remember fondly daisy drenched fields and know their cause is right.
They were the first to die when the house-builders went in
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