The call of the bird could be heard
from many miles around - its shrill
stirred every little berry and seed
from pillar to post, from hill to hill.

It nudged the sprinkling of frost on the posts
imprints left from the cold bird's claw
mumblings from distant old ghosts
leaving it for the morning sun to thaw.

A jigsaw puzzle of green lay about the countryside
dappling yellow fields of corn with bales of hay
this trend went on for many miles wide
the rain now splattering the red soaked clay.

But you know we have very little of which to complain
the seeds themselves leave a positive trail
dancing along roadsides and down the lane
tripping up and down the vale.

The evening sun fades to a silver  moonshine
the leaves around the hedge begin to blacken
the heads of the orange Welsh poppy decline
and the pink of the rose mingle with bracken.

The light from the lamps cast shadows in the night
the bird's call can once again be heard
curtains drape around damp windows shut tight
and on the cold twig sits the shy little bird.