the whispering change coming through the wind
is a leaping hare across a ploughed field,
nature’s harmonics rippling along the sky
cast an everlong shadow after the rain
but we can remember the beauty of winter
from a pineclad hill as a still white garden,
its paths riding high above the limekilns
and the greenthorn sucking up the lane
throws a new warmth into the sun,
and the day is quiet, the heat awakens the peartree:
its blossoms meet the zenith sun
even so the dusk awakes at dawn
to look upon a thing crept in at midnight:
the song, the long watermeadows,
and the dew
old worm burrows halfunder
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