The Grass that in the Morning Weeps

I miss the grass that in the morning weeps,

The dawn-time dove that gently warbles,

My dog that by the fireplace sleeps,

The coppice voles in winter torpor.

 

I miss the un-caged robin redbreasts

That in the evening sit and watch

My father in me lessons test,

While I grin and sip my scotch.

 

I miss the honking geese that, like 

A squadron in formation, slice

The sun and sky, and cast below

Their V-shaped Escher tessellations. 

 

I miss the little apple tree 

That in the winter froze to death�"

But in the lovely summer, see,

Its fruit put shame to all the rest.

 

I miss the morbid tigered bees

That pitch and yaw to flowers bent,

And though will die long prior me,

Their lives are tales of beauty spent.

 

I miss the bulking, great display 

Of Essex skies�"the ones that in 

Their violent pinks and pregnant greys,

Dwarf some distant hunkered inn.