It's like a traditional meadow,
Mixed grasses tossed and blown
Bobbing and swaying until the day
It's high and ready to be mown.
There are thistles, buttercups, clover,
Such a mixture to make a tasty hay
I do hope it won't be wasted come
That eventual harvest day.
The little Hawthorn sapling
Has blossomed a shade of
Of pink or maybe even red
Am not...
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