Ryton Firs

For all that's left of winter

Is moisture in the ground.

When I came down the valley last, the sun

Just thawed the grass and made me gentle turf,

But still the frost was bony underneath.

Now moles take burrowing jaunts abroad, and ply

Their shovelling hands in earth

As nimbly as the strokes

Of a swimmer in a long dive under water.

The meadows in the sun are twice as green

For all the scatter of fresh red mounded earth,

The mischief of the moles:

No dullish red, Glostershire earth new-delved

In April! And I think shows fairest where

These rummaging small rogues have been at work.

If you will look the way the sunlight slants

Making the grass one great green gem of light,

Bright earth, crimson and even

Scarlet, everywhere tracks

The rambling underground affairs of moles:

Though 'tis but kestrel-bay

Looking against the sun.