The Grace of JCBs Spring detonates on time thanks to wood anemones. Woodland is wan without a million of them.

JCBs squat on fly-blown, gull-flocked hills. They are King of Rat and glory to the gulls.

Wood anemones slink through crumbs of soil, heads bowed by darkness, darkness limned by toil.

JCBs shovel rancid rubbish over tilth. They rule by ramming everything in sight.

Anemones explode like stars or solar flare. They glow and glister on the forest floor.

JCBs chew up tonnage and spit out filth. Magpies choose their JCB and stick by him.

Wood anemones shift sidelong to the sun. Their shoots are metronomes in slow emotion.

Rooks erupt in raptures around a JCB. Their Midas, Grail, their Holy of Holies.

Wood anemones harvest ultraviolet rays. Early bees are drawn droning to their gaze.

Nothing saddens a JCB more than a stalled JCB. He ploughs across the planet to hold him, steady.

The lives of wood anemones are swift. We hail their fleet and fleetness, their golden crisis.

JCBs squat on fly-blown, bird-flocked hills. Spring detonates on time, thanks to JCBs.

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