Still audible, far off, is the evening train. –
A farmer, blue against green corn, at work.
Heath. Above woods the tower of a
church.
Quiet reigns – the railway track its prime
domain.
Five lines of telegraph wires seem to trail
a stave; the clef – that birch tree can
suffice;
the notes are swallows, black against red
skies,
with stems and flags formed by their fine,
long tails.
And from their beech-tree platform blackbirds
sing
melodies with a Mendelssohnian ring;
the nightingale will start his nocturnes
soon:
and, to remind him to call loud and clear
when his song gains its climax, there
appears,
as skewed point-d’orgue, the crescent of
the moon.
No comments:
Post a Comment