A poem generated from random words over the course of April. See comment below for full details of how I wrote  it.

 

A chilly April morning. Lazy lambs 

couch lifeless in the fields like balled up fists 

in woolly mitts. I need no diagram

to clarify the Spring: the tousled strips

 

of trees beside the river view an uproarious 

theatre of water, the riot of the weir and lake

of calm above. A flour-mill hums a usurious 

din - such a pity! - but duck and drake 

 

mandarins ignore it. Early bees

relay communications I’ll not grasp,

fragmented by interference from the breeze.

Their industry ensures they break the clasps 

 

of celandines, scoop nectar from the space

within and rise up, humming hymns of glory.

The basic fascination of this place

is how it yields a diet to feed my stories

 

and how its peace enforces my reliance

on nature for composure. I see red

when systems of blind faith asphyxiate science;

when the high spate line is swathed in shreds

 

of plastic; when fellow human beings behave

in ways we haven’t seen since communists

controlled the Eastern Bloc. But now a navy

of mallards hold my fate, like battleships 

 

engaged when diplomatic conversation

fails. I pray they have power to construct something good

from garbage which festoons the vegetation;

to budge bad attitudes which have withstood

each sequence of reforms we’ve sought; that nations

will graze in amity, as nations should.