[Jerome Betts]

Darn! Here's one produced before Jayne brought the good news from the Wen to Esphere. Determined to produce one where that awkward word 'sheaves' can come in naturally and not be figurative. Sorry, Seree, I don't think combine harvestgers bother with baling (that's hay) or making sheaves. They just cut, thresh and spew out grain into bags.

Though wheat and barley prosper on our plains,
The sickle and the scythe have had their day.
The last who swung them long since passed away
And harvest now brings noise and diesel stains
To such vast tracts of cereals, it pains
The eye, be yields and profits what they may.
Where, all safe in, are villagers at play
Before the ploughing and the autumn rains
Or seeking nuts among the fallen leaves
With leathery skins from years of winds and suns?
Who needs a sure hand still with stooks and sheaves?
Such country life has drawn its final breath,
Lush lanes have turned to mere commuter-runs –
Thank God that phoney idyll’s died the death!