The tits were at peace in the apples today.
The jays were at war with the sky.
The grasshoppers sang in the clover and rye.
The bees were working their hives.
But the dog was relaxed in the grass by the fence,
So I found my stick for a walk.
The way down the lane was narrow and plain,
The flowers, the same as each other.
But the park was a ramble through bracken and bramble,
So up to the left we climbed.
Up to the mountain, our troubles forgotten,
The path led this way and that.
At the top of the hill was a rose bush of thorns,
In the forks of its branches, a nest.
The nest of this bird was pillowed with petals.
Where a nightingale sat on her eggs.
So we paused and we pondered and we looked on in wonder.
Then dropped by the path to the lane.