In this puddled field
cricket-blithe after the rain
where frogs rattle and croak deep in grass-hung ditches
I hear the lowing of cattle long gone,
a plaintive moan blowing between the trees
dripping from spring-hazed branches of a different time.
Woodpecker remembers and thrush,
though the hedges are sparse now,
meagre as a cold spring.
They remember days that never ended
carried on the nightingale’s song
moonlit-dancing through the woods.
Silver-dewed and dropped
the field where the pheasant coughs
too shiny new to know anything but triumph
in his hard-won freedom.