AS February yields to March, here is a vivid picture of the turning year from the Northamptonshire nature poet John Clare (1793-1864).

from THE SHEPHERD’S CALENDAR: FEBRUARY

The snow has left the cottage top;

The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;

And eaves in quick succession drop,

Where grinning icicles have been,

Pit-patting with a pleasant noise

In tubs set by the cottage-door;

While ducks and geese, with happy joys,

Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.

The barking dogs, by lane or wood,

Drive sheep afield from foddering ground;

And Echo, in her Summer mood,

Briskly mocks the cheering sound.

The flocks, as from a prison broke,

Shake their wet fleeces in the sun,

While, following fast, a misty smoke

Reeks from the moist grass as they run.

The hedgehog, from his hollow root,

Sees the wood-moss clear of snow,

And hunts the hedge for fallen fruit –

Crab, hip, and winter-bitten sloe;

But often checked by sudden fears,

As shepherd-dog his haunt espies,

He rolls up in a ball of spears,

And all his barking rage defies.

The small birds think their wants are o’er,

To see the snow-hills fret again,

And, from the barn’s chaff-litter’d door,

Betake them to the greening plain.

The woodman’s robin startles coy,

Nor longer to his elbow comes,

To peck, with hunger’s eager joy

’Mong mossy stulps the litter’d crumbs.

stulps=tree stumps