On the river Axe

Along to Marchy farm
Ignore the public footpath and
Follow the lower Axe to the left or West
You face down cows
Who frolick
And get excited
When they see you
You hear the farmers talking from behind the
Shed wall
Keep walking
It is trespassing
But only a minor offense afterall

Next slink down a little out of sight
The lower Axe meets the Axe proper
After crossing a maintenance bridge
Enter the next field and head north
Until you join the proper foot path then you are set

On the river axe
The crows are jacks
Scattered in the fields
Like pepper corns

On the river axe,
Nothing attacks,
Nothing lacks
And Everything is born

Westbury straight rhyne
Into it inclines
And the rustle of reeds
Where Veronica bleeds

Sheep under the solar panels
Sheltering from the sun
Laying down like lambs
To the slaughter
Technology's daughter and son

Thin, starved cows of Yeo farm
Resting under the Poplars
Who looks after the cattle?
I became depressed at the thought
And too much steel
The day wore on
I began to feel weary, and so turned back
As this was leading me further
From home
With a long circle to return by

Unoccupied water rat holes
In the bank
Like the caves
Of prehistoric man
Who might have washed
Their flint axes in this river
Hunting Mammoth near Cheddar Gorge

Old wooden bridge tumble down
See to your left Chalcroft hill crown
Then along Taylor paddock drove
Where I came unstuck
In the multitude of thistles
and rape seed and buck

I turned back and retraced my steps
Back to the river Axe instead
And headed East again
The going is easier
But watch out for the stingers
Hidden in the long grass

You reach another old bridge and the road
Head towards the farm of Knowle
Then pass it and cross onto the hill

Shire horse upon the hill
Flies buzz around muddy puddles
And cows stand on the prow
Baking in the sun
I chased one to pull some bailer twine
Out of its mouth - no thanks there

From there you run on down a wooded glen
Shaded and cool
With ferns and high banks
An old tractor wheel full of water
And the dry mud path scattered with dry twigs
And sticks

Then the tunnel opens out into sunlight
And the dirt race track is on your left
Follow another track until you hit the road
Take a right
Then dog leg-second stile on the left

Cut through a wild flower meadow
Farmers lifting high the bales
Hauling up upon the trailer
rolling on green pasture sailors
On their hay ships
like barges pulling through
drawn by grassy charges

Down moor drove to Bleadney
The smell of Chamomile
and borage
Bind weed flower white in the hedges
Bramble tight in the sedges

Bulrush tower like Massai sages
Swaying power of windrush ages

Twisted oak whose limbs are dancing
Old buzzard swoops above barren yellow
Entrancing, the limits of childhood ages
Time has moved on turning its pages

See the bridge at Webb's Rhyne
Tyres on the rhyne bed recline
Where little minnow take turns to dine
As part of the aquatic furniture

River snail hang suspended there
Like bats above a darkened lair
Foot prints stick to the sky
Walking on glass ceilings

Grasshoppers leap and jump in clover
They are the ones who think its all over
But then they land and can't understand
What all the fuss was over

With each step the field comes alive
With crickets singing
Bees buzz in the skies
Hopping from warm blades
Where they sun bathe
Their joints warmed up
In the summer haze

Shooting, teeming, darting
In the bow wave of my shoe
And scatter in my wake

Dandilion clocks tick on
Their seeds are sewn
The dock's rustic red
Waves  at Babylon

Buttercups turn their heads to the sun
While butterflies like petals
Dance and flutter on

And low down the bed of pink-white bind
Brings to mind, nature is kind
As the promise of sweetness
From underneath
The light hearts rising
From the mud beneath

Down by Marchy farm
The sheep quietly eat
From fields replete with fodder
From the hearth and home
Always living shoulder to shoulder
Though each will die alone

A little pheasant or grouse
Slinks behind the house
And youngsters are chatting down by the stream
The Lower River Axe again

Dry baked in ground
Cow pats,
The crows fly up like bats
They are chatting in parliament
And the voices of civilization surround
The signs of government
Return me to my senses

Pigeons coo, awakening
All is replete with fields of wheat and rye
An adder slithers inside 
The stone crevice of an ancient bridge
After it senses my footfall
Or the scent of rain
As from one ash tree to another
The crows flock back again