Rustic's.

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