skylark‘A soft wind stirs a ripple on the lake;

A water-hen calls once, then hides away.

The silver birch tree’s branches gently sway,

And on the water gay reflections make

Of merry multitudes of dancing leaves

Which rustle in the wind. And now on high

A single swallow from the south soars by.

Beside the woodland’s edge the warm earth heaves

With new life bursting forth. Each bush and tree

Now greener grows, as if with real desire

To help the nesting birds, and to conspire

With them to make concealment quite complete,

While waves of rippling song are flowing free

From skylarks rising from the growing wheat.’

John (Jack) Kett

from ‘A Late Lark Singing’ (Minerva Press, 1997)

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