The Meadow

The friendly cow all red and white,
a herferd amongst Charolais bright,
stands out like rust, oh what a sight.
She wanders lowing here and there,
eating chewing, nothing left spare.
Skipping not even the flowers of the grass,
that stand out against that rolling mass.
And blown by all the winds that pass
dancing, swaying, spreading seed,
they pass their offspring on indeed
so a painted summer next can succeed.