The Redest Popies

The corn now growing tall moving like an angry sea in a ferocious wind, It rustles softly it is thrown back and forth by a warm billowing wind, Rye is higher than my shoulders cerulean ears have long since been shot, In the fields grow the reddest of red poppies they too sway in the wind. Scarlet anagallis and the red of the cockle twinkling in the sharp sun, With the rye cut the wild roses takes center stage and bows at the sun, On sandy heaths the wind blows dust across the woods mead's and glades, Thistle instead of wheat, cockles instead of barley in the sandy soil. Black cloud as thunder rumbles it cracks loud across the darkened sky Drenching rain pelts the ground and swells gentle rivers and streams, The slow water now rushes picking leaves and wood on its furious way, As the storm ends there is no smell like a soaked wood or wet field. The black skies clear and a warm sun shines on the meadows and glades, The thick dark green grass shimmers in the breeze in a warm bright sun, Droplets sparkle like diamonds hanging from a copse of ancient lime trees, The rain in the dark green grass is like a kaleidoscope of a tiny rainbow.