Morning Calls

Though buds, light-headed, arrow to the sun,
Woodpigeons cautiously descend to drink
And through the roof the first faint cheepings run
From half-fledged nestlings in some straw-warm chink
While welling far and near − to float and sink
Like spidery fibre silvered on the lawn −
Mercurial lark song trails out link by link,
Rocking serrated-throated crows have drawn
Their broad indelible raw weals across the dawn.

Jerome Betts

If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear from you.