Summer Morning
(Reflection on 'Summer Evening' a sonnet by John Clare)
In the dew, footprints marked by silver jewels,
Lightfoot pads gently, raising paw to pose
boldly by the meadow's edge and views
the land and sniffs the breeze with wrinkled nose.
Below the pond the iris banks, plashed white and gold
half-hide the chicken coop, shut tight
where inside, atop a perch, the cock
stands stretching for a ray of light
to crow and rouse his huddled flock.
The air is clear, the leaves are still
as nature holds its breath, for when
the sun creeps above the hill
the fox is burnished red and turns, then
delicately re-treads along its jewelled way
determined to return another day.
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