Gothic churches, hugged by emerald blades of grass.
Trees that struggle to adorn themselves with foliage,
just in time to be stripped bare once again by winter.
Their branches reaching, straining to reach the steeple.

A cottage, kept company by a mint green FJ Holden,
sunning itself in the light not hindered by the Weeping Willows that flank it.

Winter toparies,
harsh naked branch contorted into a fish, a hen and a family of deer.
Hollow gazes keeping watch on weary travellers.

Fingers of smoke, curling slowly to embrace a lonely field,
emanating from a small fire that will grow
to devour it's surroundings in it's untamed glory.

A flock of sheep, several dozen strong,
knowing the beautiful sunset
is followed by yet another bitterly cold night
to be endured.
Among them stands a lonely bovine,
it's white leather hide
splattered with black,
marking it as the black sheep.

Young lambs,
still new to the world,
still able to enjoy it,
bound across greener pastures
in their clumsy, innocent gait.

Train tracks,
winding through green hills,
the setting sun reflecting off their cool steel.
Meticulously maintained
for a train that now spends it days gawked at
as a marvel of history,
unmoving.

Family homes at the end of long dirt roads,
their owners clinging
to an apple pie life of so long ago,
those days are gone.

The tired truck driver
desiring to return to a waiting family.
It is a fast-food dinner
and a tasteless beer
that awaits him.

The fence,
once standing stalwart and proud
against malicious intruders,
now a crumbling and useless eyesore.

Green fields, once home
to thriving forests,
flowing rivers,
families of
twittering animal life,
watchful mothers,
hard working fathers,
laughing children
and lazy sundays,
now a mere obstacle
separating cold, impersonal cities.