The Clapper of the Bird Boy

The laugh like cry of the April woodpecker happy in the early spring, And the dry harsh note of the Jay, awaken the forests and everything, The dusky wings of rook’s glance in the sun, they are so timid and coy, Chased off from sown fields and hedges by the clapper of the bird boy. Bees soon will be seen again diving for nectar in the bells of flowers, Making a sunshiny hum of renewed happiness so contented for hours, Men, women and children on the landscape working hard with spring, Ploughing, harrowing, picking up stones listening to nightingales sing. Others rolling, bush-harrowing or cleaning the drilled wheat for bread, Breaking the caked crust on the surface with light harrows the clay red, Shepherds, shifting hurdles giving the flock pastures the greenest of all, People working in gardens hoeing, sweeping leaves from last year’s fall. Peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies amid flowers they don’t have a care, Settling on warm grounds or hovering high above in the still country air, Such is April with variable wind and rain with a touch of very early frost, Nightingales around calthas or kingcups near river places they love most. A coltsfoot shows it’s yellow flowers on cold bare lands without any leaf, Violets both blue and white are found as sweet as ever on their own heath, A cardamine stretches up from the margin of a moist green little hollows, Again the clapper of the bird boy can be heard chasing off hungry swallows.