Holes in the countryside.

The hum, I hear from a distant quiet, a solitary stir.

The depths are cracking, tremendous breaks, in my ears.

A gentle brush, from the barley and wheat, rippling.

A hollow explosion, a collapsing of things, engulfing.

It tickles at your fingers, an excited, soft touch.

The chasms are opening, dragging out like the pre-tsunami.

The still sun, working its fingers over branches and blades,

Their claws dug in years ago, greedy and desperate,

while a wind from the west, takes the sparrows high.

writhing in the dirt, grey and metallic, a lobotomy

July has grabbed me and the fields, filling us up, buttercups,

for our earth. The yields are falling, the hedgerows too.

daisies, all blooms. The grass is hushed, a silent summer land.

Swallowing us up now, nothing is left, just the piercing, deafening hole.

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