Hearing the cock crow in the dark,
The first thing to move in the desolate farmyard,
I lay awake to listen, the tripled shrill calls
As jagged and chill as water
While a pale movement of dawn
Began to climb and outline
The dark window-frame.
Those were my first mornings,
Fresh as Eden, with dew on the face,
Like first kiss, the damp air:
On dismantled flagstones,
From ash-smoored embers
Hands now strive to rekindle
That once leaping fire.
The Rough Field (1972)