Wyeth, Osborne Hill (Crows in a Landscape), 1943
NOVEMBER
The village sleeps in mist from morn till noon
& if the sun wades thro tis wi a face
Beamless & pale & round as if the moon
When done the journey of its nightly race
Had found him sleeping & supplyd his place
For days the shepherds in the fields may be
Nor mark a patch of sky — blind fold they trace
The plains that seem wi out a bush or tree
Wistling aloud by guess to flocks they cannot see
The timid hare seems half its fears to loose
Crouching & sleeping neath its grassy lare
& scarcly startles tho the shepherd goes
Close by its home & dogs are barking there
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passers bye then naps his hide again
& moody crows beside the road forbeer
To flye tho pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turned to night & trys to wake in vain
The Owlet leaves her hiding place at noon
& flaps her grey wings in the doubting light
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon
& small birds chirp & startle with affright
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight
Who dreams of sorry luck & sore dismay
While cow boys think the day a dream of night
& oft grow fearful on their lonely way
Who fancy ghosts may wake & leave their graves by day
The cleanly maiden thro the village streets
In pattens clicks down causways never drye
While eves above head drops — were oft she meets
The school boy leering on wi mischiefs eye
Trying to splash her as he hurrys bye
While swains afield returning to their ploughs
Their passing aid wi gentle speech apply
& much loves rapture thrills when she alows
Their help wi offerd hand to lead her oer the sloughs
The hedger soakd wi the dull weather chops
On at his toils which scarcly keeps him warm
& every stroke he takes large swarms of drops
Patter about him like an april storm
The sticking dame wi cloak upon her arm
To guard against a storm walks the wet leas
Of willow groves or hedges round the farm
Picking up aught her splashy wanderings sees
Dead sticks the sudden winds have shook from off the trees
The boy that scareth from the spirey wheat
The mellancholy crow — quakes while he weaves
Beneath the ivey tree a hut & seat
Of rustling flags & sedges tyd in sheaves
Or from nigh stubble shocks a shelter thieves
There he doth dithering sit or entertain
His leisure hours down hedges lost to leaves
While spying nests where he spring eggs hath taen
He wishes in his heart twas summer time again
& oft he ll clamber up a sweeing tree
To see the scarlet hunter hurry bye
& feign woud in their merry uproar be
But sullen labour hath its tethering tye
Crows swop around & some on bushes nigh
Watch for a chance when ere he turns away
To settle down their hunger to supply
From morn to eve his toil demands his stay
Save now & then an hour which leisure steals for play
Gaunt grey hounds now their coursing sports impart
Wi long legs stretchd on tip toe for the chase
& short loose ear & eye upon the start
Swift as the wind their motio[n]s they unlace
When bobs the hare up from her hiding place
Who in its furry coat of fallow stain
Squats on the lands or wi a dodging pace
Tryes its old coverts of wood grass to gain
& oft by cunning ways makes all their speed in vain
Dull for a time the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round then winds wake loud
Wi sudden start the once still forest sings
Winters returning song cloud races cloud
& the orison throws away its shrowd
& sweeps its stretching circle from the eye
Storm upon storm in quick succession crowd
& oer the samness of the purple skye
Heaven paints its wild irregularity
The shepherd oft foretells by simple ways
The weathers change that will ere long prevail
He marks the dull ass that grows wild & brays
& sees the old cows gad adown the vale
A summer race & snuff the coming gale
The old dame sees her cat wi fears alarm
Play hurly burly races wi its tale
& while she stops her wheel her hands to warm
She rubs her shooting corns & prophecys a storm
Morts are the signs — the stone hid toad will croak
& gobbling turkey cock wi noises vile
Dropping his snout as flaming as a cloak
Loose as a red rag oer his beak the while
Urging the dame to turn her round & smile
To see his uncooth pride her cloaths attack
Sidling wi wings hung down in vapourey broil
& feathers ruffld up while oer his back
His tail spreads like a fan cross wavd wi bars of black
The hog sturts round the stye & champs the straw
& bolts about as if a dog was bye
The steer will cease its gulping cud to chew
& toss his head wi wild & startld eye
At windshook straws — the geese will noise & flye
Like wild ones to the pond — wi matted mane
The cart horse squeals & kicks his partner nigh
While leaning oer his fork the foddering swain
The uproar marks around & dreams of wind & rain
& quick it comes among the forest oaks
Wi sobbing ebbs & uproar gathering high
The scard hoarse raven on its cradle croaks
& stock dove flocks in startld terrors flye
While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the skye
The shepherd happy when the day is done
Hastes to his evening fire his cloaths to dry
& forrester crouchd down the storm to shun
Scarce hears amid the strife the poachers muttering gun
The ploughman hears the sudden storm begin
& hies for shelter from his naked toil
Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin
He speeds him hasty oer the elting soil
While clouds above him in wild fury boil
& winds drive heavily the beating rain
He turns his back to catch his breath awhile
Then ekes his speed & faces it again
To seek the shepherds hut beside the rushy plain
Oft stripping cottages & barns of thack
Were startld farmer garnerd up his grain
& wheat & bean & oat & barley stack
Leaving them open to the beating rain
The husbandman grieves oer his loss in vain
& sparrows mourn their night nests spoild & bare
The thackers they resume their toils again
& stubbornly the tall red ladders bare
While to oerweight the wind they hang old harrows there
Thus wears the month along in checkerd moods
Sunshine & shadow tempests loud & calms
One hour dyes silent oer the sleepy woods
The next wakes loud with unexpected storms
A dreary nakedness the field deforms
Yet many rural sounds & rural sights
Live in the village still about the farms
Where toils rude uproar hums from morn till night
Noises in which the ear of industry delights
Hoarse noise of field-free bull that strides ahead
Of the tail switching herd to feed again
The barking mastiff from his kennel bed
Urging his teazing noise at passing swain
The jostling rumble of the sturting wain
From the farm yard were freedoms chance to wait
The turkey drops his snout — & geese in vain
Noise at the signal of the opening gate
Then from the clowns whip flyes & finds the chance too late
The pigeon wi its breast of many hues
That spangles to the sun turns round & round
About his timid sidling mate & croos
Upon the cottage ridge were oer their heads
The puddock sails oft swopping oer the pen
Were timid chickens from their parent stray
That skulk & scutter neath her wings agen
Nor peeps no more till they have saild away
& one bye one they peep & hardly dare to stray
Such rural sounds the mornings tongue renews
& rural sights swarm on the rustic's eye
The billy goat shakes from his beard the dews
& jumps the wall wi carting teams to hie
Upon the barn rig at their freedom flye
The spotted guiney fowl — hogs in the stye
Agen the door in rooting whinings stand
The freed colt drops his head & gallops bye
The boy that holds a scuttle in his hand
Prefering unto toil the commons rushy land
At length the noise of busy toil is still
& industry awhile her care forgoes
When winter comes in earnest to fulfil
Her yearly task at bleak novembers close
& stops the plough & hides the field in snows
When frost locks up the streams in chill delay
& mellows on the hedge the purple sloes
For little birds — then toil hath time for play
& nought but threshers flails awake the dreary day.
John Clare
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