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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.

Poem by Laurie Lee
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