The smoke uncurls, stretches

and spreads above the village,

making a mystery of the morning,

romancing valley and crag.     

 

And on the stump of an ancient oak,

a solitary rook clicks and croons

like Crosby, his tail a fan

on The Road to Singapore.    

   

Sparrows chirp by the wall

and tittlemice scold from the eaves

where martins, vagrant potters,

will build their summer trust.     

 

Incumbent of herbaceous border,

the grey, brown dunnock,

as furtive as a monk,

chants an insistent catechism.    

 

And in the night

the robin trills  

soft, like falling water,

under the light.  

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