AN AUTUMN MORN
The wrestling curlew in the bog
Do argue with a curving sound,
And now they rise up through the fog
And soon are nowhere to be found.
The wiry clothes upon the hedge
Are softened by the rising sun,
And withering rushes on the sedge
To seep and dry have now begun.
Now the muddy road is strewn
With tattered worms of sickening white;
The calves do lie within the ruin
Where they took shelter for the night.
S. Turtle Age 12