Static Green

Motorway drone collapses to cricket stutter,
last sodium flare swallowed by thorn-clotted gutter.
Engine coughs final mechanical cough,
silence pours in—thick as wet plough.
Boots meet loam that never signed lease or clause,
earth exhales centuries of unhurried applause.

Palms once slick from wheel now greet the bruise of root,
calluses bartered for the slow burn of pursuit.
Fingers trace furrows like Braille on forgotten stone,
no red-dot urgency, no algorithm’s monotone.
Hen scatters like loose change across dew-silver yard,
egg still warm—unpriced, unbarcoded, unscarred.

Verdant drift, where the signal finally frays,
freedom tastes of green sap and small delays.
No push, no scroll, no debt cascade,
just the low thrum of a life remade.

Morning mist clings like a lover reluctant to leave,
breath clouds rise, dissolve—nothing to retrieve.
I laugh at the ghost of notifications long dead,
phantom buzz in the wrist—now only blood instead.

They’ll label it quaint, pastoral escape cliché,
but the quiet cuts deeper than their neon display.

Old smartphone in the drawer gathers dust and regret,
glanced once a month—then deliberately forget.
No urgent red circle, no vibrating plea,
just the low thrum of a life set free.

Verdant drift, grounding every uneven stride,
where the signal dies and the wild things confide.
Simple joys bloom where the concrete subside,
off-grid hymns—quietly amplified.

One day the old world might send its van to pry,
till then I plant—watch the green reply.
[Chorus 3 – whispered, wind through tall grass]
Verdant drift… drift… drift…
where the signal finally lifts

Lantern swings low, brass belly full of whale-oil glow,
fox pads the boundary where the chicken wire bows.
Amber eyes ride the dark like twin lanterns of their own,
assessing the small kingdom I claimed with shovel and bone.
He circles once, twice—mathematic grace—
tail a slow question mark across the frost-laced place.

I stand at the gatepost, breath smoking white scripture,
speak low to the intruder in the tongue of old mixture:
"Take your hunger elsewhere, brother of the thorn,
this yard holds only what the seasons have borne."
He pauses—ear cocked to the sermon in my voice—
then melts back into shadow, leaving no choice.

Fox and lantern, hunter and held flame,
one seeks the throat, one guards the name.
Joy in the vigil, melancholy in the game,
country night—beautiful, untamed.

Dawn finds feathers scattered like pale confetti,
one hen missing—taken in the small hours, petty.
I curse the wild law that never asks permission,
yet feel the strange kinship in the predation's precision.

The city never taught me how to mourn the taken,
only how to fear the taker—here the heart is shaken.

I reset the wire, tighten each barb with deliberate care,
knowing the fox will return—patient, aware.
The lantern is refilled, wick trimmed low and steady,
a small defiance against the dark already.

Fox and lantern, amber and brass,
one moves in silence, one throws light on the grass.
Joy in the border, melancholy in the pass,
country night—beautiful, vast.

One winter he may starve while I sleep warm,
still I leave the scraps—small, stubborn charm.
[Chorus 3 – low, choral, fading owl call]
Fox and lantern… lantern… lantern…
where the wild and the watched forever turn.

Bees move in slow cursive across lavender drift,
sunlight fractures in honey—thick, liturgical gift.
Barbed wire sags beneath bindweed's green-laced embrace,
old boundary softened to a lover's last grace.

I lift the super, smoke drifting low and deliberate,
frames heavy with amber—slow, sacramental weight.
Sting on the knuckle, bright as a memory knife,
reminder that sweetness carries its own afterlife.

Honey and wire, sweet sting of the vow,
barbed line softened by bindweed now.
Joy in the jar, melancholy in the frame,
country life—beautiful, maimed.

Fox prints circle the run beneath first light's blade,
amber eyes assessing what belongs to the shade.
I speak low to the hens—half apology, half claim—
this patch of earth carries both our name.

They sell connection in packets and plans,
I take mine buried—slow, ancient hands.

Evening finds me leaning on gatepost worn smooth as bone,
watching the last bee stagger home with the known.
Jar on the sill catches moon in its gold,
bittersweet weight of a story retold.

Honey and wire, amber ache in the vein,
sweetness and boundary—pleasure and pain.
Joy in the harvest, shadow in the gain,
country life—beautiful, plain.

One winter may empty the hive overnight,
still I leave sugar—small, stubborn rite.

Honey and wire… wire… wire…
sweet sting we require.

Courgette flowers open like pale yellow flags of surrender,
bees plunder the centres, pollen heavy with plunder.
I snap the first marrow—skin still tender, cool as sin,
flesh dense with summer—unhurried, within.

Knife through the green, seeds spill like wet pearls of grief,
steam rises from the pan—simple, unbelief.
No supermarket chill, no plastic shroud of deceit,
just the taste of soil rising to meet.

Marrow and sky, flesh fed by the vault of blue,
season's slow contract—honest, true.
Bite down on summer, feel the year renew,
country table—nothing left to prove.

Runner beans climb strings like emerald ladders to grace,
pods hang heavy—quiet, patient embrace.
I pick them at dusk when the light turns to brass,
fingers stained green—small victory class.

They quantify abundance in metrics and shares,
I measure it in rows and prayers.

Plate steams under lantern light, simple and plain,
wine from last year's apples—tart, unchained.
Each mouthful a calendar, each swallow a date,
living inside time—no need to wait.

Marrow and sky, slow food for the soul,
season's own ledger—complete, whole.
Bite down on the year, let the colors unroll,
country table—making us whole.

One frost may blacken the vines overnight,
still we bottle the last of the light.

Marrow and sky… sky… sky…
where the seasons never die.