Busy Spring

Cute little tractors, blue and green, everywhere,
fill the vale with distinctive smell of diesel fume.
It’s easy to be a farmer now up and down hillsides
no big deal, ploughing nice little field turning over
red rusty soil; but there is no horse manure for
the roses anymore, but what the heck, the nature
is green and flowers are red, sheep bleats and cows
are blue, well not around here, but on milk cartons.
But when the farmers have parked their tractors in
the barn and gone indoors for their evening meal
and the sun is setting; I can see a caravan of Gipsies,
horses and carts, leaving the road they have spotted
a flat piece of land where to camp for the night; so
there will be manure for the roses and all is well.