Cricket
CRICKET by ron Arbuthnot
Come list' to what is this our summer night,
our world, it comes alive when dark prevails,
'tis our great mystery, but such delight,
and hidden from the world until light fails.
I often wonder what could make this sound;
it echos through a hot and steaming air;
and why must they hide out, not to be found,
whenever we go looking for them there?
'tis said their song is but a mating call,
and echoed from a file upon their wings,
but to my mind, I think that can't be all
'tis meant to be, there must be other things;
like making us to wonder at their song
when other things in life have gone so wrong.
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