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

Tullygrawley School