Fields of my fathers

Swayin', collidin' cornstalks
begins an orchestral opera
as a baton tapped by hush breezes,
then legato poultry moans
staccato squalking
lazy pup howls.

What a scene I witness;
written and played
by labours untold
yet melodic in fields
of my forefathers
whom graced, as wished,
to rest yonder o'er hill.

With arms a-fray I yell
'play oh Victorian scene
I also whistled this tune;
with grip of rope
sweat beating our lush grass,
seeding for newcomers
so you not perish to concrete.

Daily, no hourly I praise;
fertility of southern soil
swampy pond moistures -
creeping steadily
mulching acres of earth.
The lark even foretells in tune,
our futurist abundance!'

Why this outpouring,
unless censors unseen
are too - dancing
approving in rap style
by leafy claps
from o'er the slope
my forefathers?