In The Small Hours: On Cuckoo Hill
As we drift down into golden autumn John Brian Leaver's poetic thoughts are of the leafy greens of spring.
Leaves crimp to impending fall
and my thoughts turn, most of all,
to April's dregs, first flush of May,
at my back a warm wind
and the swallow here to stay
I'll climb the hill by furrow'd earth
to a peewit's plaintive call,
to the lofty trill of a laverock's bill
and wait for its silent fall
Atop the bluff, a sky-filled crest,
sleeps a wood of ancient mien,
yet, I know, within her breast
stir the forty shades of green
Soon her waxy leaves will blow
and nature's random brush
will add a burnished copper blush,
a touch, to noble dignity
and the cacophony of crow.
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