Though buds, light-headed, arrow to the sun,
Woodpigeons cautiously descend to drink
And through the roof the first faint cheepings run
From half-fledged nestlings in some straw-warm chink
While welling far and near − to float and sink
Like spidery fibre silvered on the lawn −
Mercurial lark song trails out link by link,
Rocking serrated-throated crows have drawn
Their broad indelible raw weals across the dawn.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.