Day of These Days

 Such a morning it is when love
leans through geranium windows
and calls with a cockerel's tongue.


When red-haired girls scamper like roses
over the rain-green grass;
and the sun drips honey.


When hedgerows grow venerable,
berries dry black as blood,
and holes suck in their bees.


Such a morning it is when mice
run whispering from the church,
dragging dropped ears of harvest.


When the partridge draws back his spring
and shoots like a buzzing arrow
over grained and mahogany fields.


When no table is bare,
and no beast dry,
and the tramp feeds on ribs of rabbit.

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