Larks
They are dragging a graph
Of tongue-tied poverty
Through the clover,
Trannelling it for larks
With a long net – fourteen
By twenty-five. They wait,
Break the neck of each bird
As it rises; or curse the
buntings that snip through.
Thruppence a dozen they pay,
The porticoed clubs, tasteful
Restaurants where literati
Talk with stuffed mouths
Wiping the praises of some
Modern from their beards: no
Buntings here; only sky-
Larks fluttering to get out
From abstruse philology.
Out of the dawn slub into
A backhouse: there, on her
Scrubbed-off deal, arms
Rolled to whiteness, the girl
Cuts each silent breast;
And they drink, listening
For that whistle across the
Levels, everywhere heard,
Only spotted with fen eyes.
Page(s) 46
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