The curlew no more <br />stalks the estuary <br />winter is gone. <br />I hear but one cuckoo <br />and summer is here, <br />when I hear him no more <br />summer will fade again <br />autumn slipping silent by, <br />the blackbird heralding <br />the shortening day as <br />crows assembling in pines <br />sing a raucous roundelay <br />to rutting stags and <br />waiting doe as the fox <br />seeks rabbits in <br />the honeysuckle hedge <br />bright with berries and <br />black with bramble beneath <br />the crab and thorny sloe. <br />Yellow tinges in the leaves <br />as ash and aspen moult, <br />while the oak stands green <br />until November gales discard <br />the orange leaves and red, <br />acorns fall and squirrels <br />stock their larders <br />As the curlew calls<br /><br />John Rickell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/curlew-calls/
