Cows fart, sheep belch, releasing toxins (they say) and pollution ripens, so men with smart ties and green wellies, clipboards and breathalysers, set to work on measurements and samples, conclude it’s probably the “wrong sort of grass,” but propose a committee anyway, then head back for the motorway to tank up their four-by-fours and tick some boxes while in the field cows chew the cud, sheep graze and suckle, and everywhere dandelions grow puffballs, that blow skywards in a soft refreshing breeze.

the computer at HQ absorbs
ruminates
later sleeps

—From the haibun collection A Piece of Shrapnel (Hub Editions, 2013); republished here by author’s permission

Bio: Peter Butler