Our grasslands have been poisoned by intensive farming – Randall D Jackson

With each step, Zeke’s boot disappears from sight, swallowed by a lush canopy of grasses and clovers. He jabs his walking stick through the foliage to gauge its height. ‘’Bout ready for turn in,’ he thinks, taking a minute to soak up the scene – buzzing bees, chirping birds, a babbling brook full of trout. At the end of the valley, he sees his neighbour in chest-high waders flicking his fishing rod in a slow back-and-forth rhythm, and wonders how the new cattle-crossing is holding up in the creek.

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