Day of These Days

Such a morning it is when love

leans through geranium windows

and calls with a cockerel's tongue.

When red-haired girls scamper like roses

over the rain-green grass;

and the sun drips honey.

When hedgerows grow venerable,

berries dry black as blood,

and holes suck in their bees.

Such a morning it is when mice

run whispering from the church,

dragging dropped ears of harvest.

When the partridge draws back his spring

and shoots like a buzzing arrow

over grained and mahogany fields.

When no table is bare,

and no beast dry,

and the tramp feeds on ribs of rabbit.