THIS is the month for looking out for those engaging creatures in Scottish hills, fields, and woods, whether in their inappropriate white coats or summer colouring.

Andrew Young watches their high jinks in his Selected Poems (Carcanet, £9.95).

MARCH HARES

I made myself as a tree,

No withered leaf twirling on me;

No, not a bird that stirred my boughs,

As looking out from wizard brows

I watched those lithe and lovely forms

That raised the leaves in storms.

I watched them leap and run,

Their bodies hollowed in the sun

To thin transparency,

That I could clearly see

The shallow colour of their blood

Joyous in love's full flood.

I was content enough,

Watching the serious game of love,

That happy hunting in the wood

Where the pursuer was the more pursued,

To stand in breathless hush

With no more life myself than tree or bush.