Picked out in a twinkle of black and white,
Voices thin as distant cats
Or shrieks from grass blades reeded between thumbs,
The peewits zigzag and plunge
And tumble above the egg-sown furrows,
Drop, land, fold their wings and run
Over a promising scribble of green.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jerome Betts would
be pleased to hear them.