The earth is soaked
from yesterday's rainfall , leaving early morning misty landscapes.
Long overdue, Winter days are now warming, later in the week, a predicted balmy 70 degrees.
The Iris are pushing
their shoots out of the soil, I keep reminding them it's Winter and to stay
safely snuggled beneath their blanket of earth, but they insist on reaching out
to feel the warmth of the sun.
The First Sergeant has taken his bird-feeding duties most seriously, and has developed quite a following.
His goal is to have them feed out of his hand, but with cat's around, I'm not sure if that's such a wise thing.
The wild turkeys appear morning and evening, a flock of forty or more.
They feed on the Sunflower seeds and anything else they choose.
The rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old manor farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. The church and yew
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not winter--
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable,
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and latch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.