In the meadow that slopes
to an aching stream,
we’re pilgrims come to reverence
this mythical plant – a chimera
that’s animal & vegetable in form.
But the tractor’s already made its bid
for silage,
& from the margins, rattles round robotic –
Krone arm bearing down
where grasses quake & fall,
this Keridwen come before her time
gnashing teeth,
her galvanised desires
mutated beyond the ancient rites
of husbandry.
We rush in where angels knelt;
this dwindling haven
from which still ascend
on slender spears
Ophrys apifera – sepals colour of white-girl
nipples, where each
corolla’s russet fuzz
is scented
eau-de-female Bee;
has stubby flightless
wings our quivering
fingers touch.
How could such beings evolve
so wily in mimesis,
yet seem so innocent
of their nemesis closing now?
These ever-decreasing circles –
Krone a swarm
maddened by the smog
of ancient sunlight –
in the meadow that slopes
to an aching stream