Only two weeks ago it was quiet,
apart from the owls at night.
But now the song thrush has started
his merry, desperate tune,
and a murmuration of starlings
daily pervades the sky.

By day, falls of lambs
spring on grassy banks,
their mothers staring back
at the farmer's straining dog.

At a shout from his master,
he hits the floor,
his wagging tail halts,
pricked ears fall,
but his eyes remain fixed
on the now fleeing flock.

Thistles have clambered out of the ground,
buzzards drift high above.
Now a screeching pheasant takes flight,
my spaniel's footsteps are like
a skimmed stone on the brook -
he tries turning it into a runway.