The birds were protected, the fields were left long, and the drive did not survive the afternoon. Winston’s account, in verse.
I watched him watching Clarkson,
Who’d left his fields for birds,
And soon he spoke of wildlife
In very noble words.
“We’ll wait,” he said. “Let nature thrive.”
The grass grew tall and dry.
The birds were pleased. The rain stayed off.
The horseflies gathered nigh.
At last he chose two fields to flail,
As country gentlemen do:
Improve his tan, preserve the birds,
And feed a horsefly crew.
I settled somewhere cool and safe,
My paws discreetly crossed—
For when he says, “This won’t take long,”
Experience says we’re lost.
The flail arm had unscrewed itself—
A small mechanical blight—
So every time he raised the thing,
The tractor listed right.
The flail dug firmly in the ground
And held with all its might;
He pressed a lever, swore a bit,
And leaned the other side.
Then came a feat of logic
No sane machine should know:
The tractor travelled better
With the flail kept very low.
This helped him cross the field, of course—
A triumph, you might say—
Until the lowered flail arrived
Upon the gravelled way.
Our drive had been a handsome thing,
All country sweep and grace;
The flail approached it cheerfully
And rearranged its face.
It churned the stones and carved the ground,
Then scattered half the drive.
I watched from somewhere well removed,
Delighted to survive.
The Merlin app was opened
To identify the din.
It offered “wren” and “blackbird,”
But neither quite fit in.
The sound was not a buzzard,
Nor an owl upon the wing—
Just one grown man discovering
The damage steel can bring.
He’ll now return to manual work,
With garden rake in hand,
And try to put each stone back
Approximately where it began.
He calls this “back to normal,”
A brave and hopeful phrase;
I estimate three working weeks—
Or possibly three days.
And should he tell the story
As a battle nobly won,
Remember I was there throughout
And saw what he had done.
The birds are safe, his tan is grand,
The drive has gone astray—
A fine day’s work at Martins Farm.
Well, that’s my story anyway.
— Winston