To His Grace the 12th Duke of Marlborough
Oh don’t spray death across my field,
this wiped-out spring insults the soul.
Reckon beyond this year’s yield,
not just the profit, but the whole.
We locals have no power to wield,
to save the so-called weeds you kill.
It’s money in your bank, I know,
to herbicide our lovely field.
The year’s best time, we fear to go
out in the morning into brown
where green should spring and everything
lies on the panned soil, rotting down.
We’re unentitled, but we love
clover along the public path.
What ancient moot could have foreseen
this power to poison all that’s green?
Your hirelings come from far afield
and never walk the land they spray.
Seated high behind a shield
they do the job and drive away.
They do not see or smell, don’t know
the desert left here when they go.
One putrid anaerobic stench
obliterates the scents of May.