From the archive record
February Rain To be the mud, the bog, the mire; To soak the bones in February -- Eons from the autumn shower-- Even from a summer berry! Sparrows chirp a desperate call, Darting questions at the cows -- Oblivious to the dousing squall, they Churn the sludge with pastern ploughs. The crying air was lost in rhythm: Drums incessant in the drops; Not a chance for rainbow prism -- Even if the hammering stops! Metallic chills entrap machines -- Tractors hushed within the shed. Inside the house, a full cuisine To bless with mead -- and little said! But out across the tiring field, A sodden fox is hunting down His prey of sorts -- but nil of yield; Perhaps he'll starve; perhaps he'll drown. Still the clouds are hammering, Hammering home their dreary aim -- A chatterbox in constant yammering, Drenc