Wrapped in birdsong, a reflection on mortality that seems almost upbeat in its philosophical acceptance.

The poet is William Neill and the piece comes from his collection, Wild Places: Poems in Three Leids (Luath Press, 1985).

LARK

Lark sings as she has always done

over the thorn hedge of the spring meadow.

Now my time's very nearly run. . .

long gone the day of the coarse fellow

who heard the song and indifferently whistled

and thought of beef and beer and fun and girls,

ignoring warnings of his careless heading.

Now Lark has a deal more of attention

a careful leaning on the broken gate.

I think of the subject we try not to mention,

former abstractions of our certain fate,

cold speculations on threescore years and ten.

Sing Lark, sing Lark to me and then

perhaps the scented hour will seem less late.