The cows stand silent in the fields,
Their soft mouths filled with grass and dew.
White mist is rolling down the ridge,
The eggshell sky is milky blue.
Two ducks have landed on the lawn;
My old black cat has caught a doe —
Not badly hurt — I force a thumb
In Moushka’s mouth and let it go.
A blackbird struts upon the hedge,
His warbling fit to stir the Bard,
Who, so they say, once walked this way —
(In Warwickshire, old myths die hard).
The swallows wheel in search of mud,
My bed is made, the dog is fed
And I must down to London town,
Where fools like me must earn their bread.