Ridpath's poem starts in a mood of easy pleasure. The speaker loves "it" when things are like this, and the early images are playful: riding the flowers, hoovering the leaves. There is a sense of a private world, even a shared one, since the speaker says "we" need "our own language." The short rhyming lines about growing "big as trees" and sewing the seed sound like a nursery rhyme or a gardening charm.
Then the tone slips. The bees hover, humans "scream and flee," and plane engines scream too. The poem suggests that something gentle has become loud and threatening, though it never says exactly what. The final commands, "Go back inside" and "Spin again," feel like retreat and repetition, as if the speaker is trying to restart the calm.
What stays with you is the unease under the childlike surface. It reads like a daydream that keeps tilting toward panic, and the broken, clipped lines make that shift feel sudden.