WALKING AN OLD ENGLISH FIELD
 

I trudge, tight-scarved, along a trod-down way;

heavy clods of clay clumping on boot-edges

across the stile swinging.  A brightening day

brings stripes of sunlight slanting through the hedges.

 

Through frosted furrow, strewn with flinty pebbles

goes galloping the gangling long-boned hare

while lyrically the lark in liquid trebles

pours out its passion on the peaceful air.

 

The blackthorn blossoms on the branch appear

in froth of flower.  A fox trots by

causing a clattering pheasant’s cry of fear.

Kites wheel and whistle in the windy sky.

 

For the hope that is April is dancing outdoors

with daffodils bobbing their yellow applause.