Trespassers

Bad bullocks! Did the grass look greener,
lusher, fresher, crisper, cleaner?
It's sad we had to grass you up,
before you'd time to fill your cup,
but this fine field, with luscious yield,
belongs to folks from town,
whose empty green by empty house
must not be blotched with brown.

"No, you did right," the farmer says,
and drives her calves away.
"The owners wouldn't be too pleased
if we had let them stay."
Dear bullocks! How we welcome you
as neighbours now and then.
Next time, we might be slower
to the phone, so, come again!

poem © Celia Warren 2012