'Ah', I see you both nodding. 'But is it any good?'
Who can tell. What I do know is that this version is a whole wagonload of betterment than the pile of stinking wordslush from which it emerged. And that (for now) is good enough for me!
Beyond the station fence, a field
in plough, farrow, till - ready for seeds.
Great moles have burrowed beneath,
their spoils steep mountains: brown; bare.
Spring shall come, and a vision
can bloom: cantilever petals, translucence.
Sit. Imagine the complex language -
fibonacci spirals, sunburst rain on blade.
My clanky snake is late: I catch
snow on a tongue; watch transient hills frost.