The Three Winds

The hard blue winds of March

shake the young sheep

and flake the long stone walls;

now from the gusty grass

comes the homed music of rams,

and plovers fall out of the sky

filling their wings with snow.

Tired of this northern tune

the winds turn soft

blowing white butterflies

out of the dog-rose hedges,

and schoolroom songs are full

of boys’ green cuckoos

piping the summer round

Till August sends at last

its brick-red breath

over the baking wheat and blistered poppy,

brushing with feathered hands

the skies of brass,

with dreams of river moss

my thirst’s delirium.