FROM the astronomical reflections of yesterday to the very down-to-earth, Thomas Hardy projects himself into the imagined thought-world of pheasant and grouse.

THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS

(Triolet)

They are not those who used to feed us

When we were young - they cannot be -

These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?

They are not those who used to feed us,

For did we then cry, they would heed us.

If hearts can house such treachery

They are not those who used to feed us

When we were young - they cannot be!