lament of the lark

The combine drives its lonely round
and leaves no speck upon the ground
agri-farmer’s pockets lined with plenty
whilst crop and gizzard remain empty
no butterfly, aphid nor yet a bee
to feed my growing family
no swarm of insects overhead
between the stalks the soil is dead
not long ago the farmers horse
leading on his steady course
would pull the plough, the hoe, the rake
leaving in his stately wake
mounds of dung which left to lie
would feed the beetle or the fly
each juicy grub a feast for me
and other dwellers on the leas
across the field at stately pace
to beat the weather was their race
in numbers ever exponential
no thought of problems consequential
now I fear those halcyon days
are lost forever in the haze
of time and deepest memory
set down in our planet’s story